ORPHEUS 

And  Other  Poems 
WILLIS    HALL    VITTUM 


ly^liflttB 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ORPHEUS 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WILLIS    HALL   VITTUM 

"But  let  some  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul;   that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring, 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing 


BOSTON 
RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 

1911 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Willis  Hall   Vittum 
All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  MY  WIFE  V$3£& 

This  wreath  of  halting  rhyme,  dear  heart, 

Is  my  poor  offering 

Before  thy  quiet  shrine,  whose  part 

Throughout  my  wayfaring 

In  winter's  cold,  in  summer's  blight, 

O'er  field  and  flood  and  fell, 

Hath  been  that  of  a  pilot  light 

To  lands  where  all  is  well. 

But  though  the  garland  withered  be, 

Thy  love  shall  make  it  sweet. 

'Tis  all  I  have.     Despairingly 

I  lay  it  at  thy  feet. 


1643519 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Orpheus    9 

The  Death  of  Orpheus 41 

The  Sirens    56 

When  Bacchus  Came 57 

Revery    75 

Yellowstone  Canyon   79 

Indian  Summer 82 

Lines  Written  at  Indian  Mound  Park 83 

Yule-Tide    85 

To  Marguerite   86 

Alongshore    88 

Spring  Song   90 

A  Poet's  Heart 92 

After  a  Late  Snow  Storm 96 

In  the  Track  of  a  Forest  Fire 97 

My  Star  100 

The  Primal  Strain 102 

Spring  Idyl   104 

Absence    105 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

Sunset  Lights   107 

Keats    in 

Shelley    112 

Milton    113 

R.   L.   S 114 

Lincoln    115 

A  Sequence  of   Four  Sonnets 1 16 

Proserpine    1 1 8 

To   Fanny    119 

To  a  Crocus 1 20 

In   November    121 

Unrest    .  122 


ORPHEUS   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


ORPHEUS 
Part  I 

Calliope,  chief  muse  of  all  the  nine, 

With  bowed  head  and  with  bated  breath  I  ask 

Thine  aid  and  guidance:  help  me  line  by  line 

Lest  that  I  fail  in  my  appointed  task. 

Unworthy,  I,  to  touch  thy  garment's  hem, 

Yet  now,  before  my  song  is  even  begun, 

Thee  I  implore  for  many  a  verbal  gem 

To  decorate  this  story  of  thy  son. 

Oh,  crush  not  out  the  tiny  spark  of  flame 

Which,  though  presumptuous,  yet  is  full  of  fear 

And  longing  to  extol  thy  gracious  name, 

And  that  of  thy  great  son,  in  accents  clear. 

I 

Aeons  ago,  mid  dim  and  fragrant  groves, 
In  farthest  Thrace,  when  all  the  ambient  air 
Was  vital  with  the  springtime,  and  the  loves 
Of  bird  and  beast  were  throbbing  everywhere, 
Fairest  Calliope  was  wandering 
Seeking  that  purple  flower,  the  namesake  dear 
Of  sweetest  Iris,  whom  the  poets  sing 
As  goddess  of  the  rainbow  high  and  clear. 
9 


Charmed  by  the  sights  and  odors  as  she  strayed, 
Forgetful  of  her  godhead  on  that  day, 
She  seemed  a  gentle,  simple  woodland  maid 
Tempting  her  sister  Nymphs  to  come  and  play. 
Upon  her  rounded  arm  a  basket  green 
Of  wreathed  willow  hung,  and,  as  she  moved, 
She  was  the  fairest  maiden,  well  I  ween, 
Ever  by  gods  or  heroes  to  be  loved. 

So  straying  on  she  presently  was  'ware 

Of  fluttering  wings  and  cooings  soft  and  clear, 

When  lo!  about  her  all  the  crystal  air 

Was  rilled  with  gleaming  doves  both  far  and  near. 

These  were  the  doves,  although  she  knew  it  not, 

Of  Venus,  who  had  flown  from  Paphos  far, 

In  that  fair  Cyprian  isle  without  a  blot, 

Where  their  great  mistress  is  the  guiding  star. 

Enchanted   at   the   airy   dalliance  sweet, 

She  felt  a  sudden  soft  desire  oppress 

Her  swelling  breast,  so  moved  on  footsteps  fleet 

These  lovely  birds  to  fondle  and  caress. 

But  like  the  marshy  ignis  fatuus, 

The  wary  doves  evaded  near  approach, 

And  as  the  waters  of  King  Tantalus, 

Kept  just  beyond  her  tender  yearning  touch. 

Still  striving  to  accomplish  her  desire, 

She  followed  where  through  wide  dim  aisles  they 

sped, 

Pausing  at  last,  to  wonder,  and  admire 
The  secret  refuge  to  which  they  had  fled. 

For  here  the  trees  had  ranged  themselves  around 

A  space  no  bigger  than  a  little  room, 

Where    the    bright    sunshine,   which    its    way    had 

found 

Among  the  leaves,  was  dulled  to  golden  gloom. 
The  walls  around  this  lovely  sylvan  place 
10 


Were  wainscoted  with  rare  and  lacy  ferns, 
Such  as  among  our  modern  city  race 
Are  reared  most  tenderly  in  marble  urns. 
And  round  about,  above  the  ferny  wall, 
Between  the  whispering  trees,  were  interlaced 
Sweet  shrubs  and  slender  flowering  bushes  tall : 
And  chiefly  that  Syringa  which  is  traced 
To  the  wild  grief  of  Pan,  who  when  he  lost 
The  lovely  Syrinx,  fashioned  blossoms  rare, 
So  formed  that  when  by  gentle  zephyrs  tossed, 
Delicious  odors  fill  the  grateful  air. 
And  as  the  flowering  branches  intertwine, 
Creeping  among  them  comes  the  ivy  green, 
Emblem  of  joy,  great  Bacchus'  sacred  vine, 
Binding  the  whole  to  form  a  living  screen. 
The  only  entrance  to  this  vernal  bower 
Was  garlanded  with  drooping  trumpet  vine, 
Where  brown  bees  hummed  e'en  at  the  noon-tide 

hour, 

Rifling  the  blossoms  of  their  dewy  wine. 
The  emerald  floor  was  sparkling  with  the  eyes 
Of  early  flowers,  children  of  youthful  spring, 
Narcissi  fair  recalled  their  parent's  sighs, 
And  hapless  Echo's  aimless  answering. 
The  starry  trefoil  and  the  violet, 
The  crocus  striving  first  of  all  to  be, 
The  blood  root  with  its  dewy  gems  beset, 
And   faintly  blushing,   pure  anemone. 
Midmost  of  all  arose  a  rounded  bank 
Cushioned  with  springy  mosses  crisp  and  deep, 
Exhaling  odors  cool  and  fresh  and  dank, 
Inviting  to  the  poppy-lidded  sleep. 
Just  at  one  side  a  tiny  rivulet 
Bickered  'mongst  osier  roots  and  mossy  stones, 
Laving  the  plants  along  its  borders  set, 
And  babbling  in  most  sweet  and  drowsy  tones. 
Enshrined  within  this  cooling  restful  dell, 


Her  heart  enthralled  by  many  a  fair  conceit, 

The  pensive  maiden  yields  to  Fancy's  spell 

Drawing  her  down  where  sleep  and  waking  meet. 

Low  humming  of  the  gauzy-winged  bees, 

The  ring-doves  crooning  in  the  tree  tops  there, 

The  babbling  brook,  the  odors, — all  of  these 

Combine  her  drowsy  senses  to  ensnare. 

Scarce  knowing  what  she  did,  the  dreamy  maid 

Laid  her  fair  limbs  along  the  mossy  bank, 

And  like  a  closing  flower,  unafraid, 

Through  pleasant  dreams  to  deepest  Lethe  sank. 

As  chance  decreed,  sweeping  through  upper  air, 

Apollo,  lighting  in  that  self-same  wood, 

Espied  the  beauties  of  the  bower  fair, 

And  soon  within  the  flowery  entrance  stood. 

Enraptured  at  the  sight,  and  scarcely  deeming 

The  vision  true,  so  quietly  she  slept, 

He  stood  adoring,  till  from  out  her  dreaming 

A  sudden  smile  over  her  features  swept. 

Then  a  sweet  madness  seized  him  and  he  flew 

Across  the  bower,  and  on  her  lips  he  pressed 

His  own,  and  tasted  purest  honey  dew, 

And  felt  the  swelling  of  that  silver  breast. 

Swept  into  ecstasy  from  deepest  sleep. 

'Twas  thus  Apollo  won  her,  so  'tis  said: 

There  amid  Nature's  charms  so  pure  and  deep, 

Th'at  mossy  bank  became  her  bridal  bed. 

Sweet  infant  bard,  first  poet  of  the  world, 

Such  was  the  mating  from  which  thou  didst  spring. 

Within  thy  tiny  body  lies  upfurled 

That  fire  by  which  e'en  latest  poets  sing. 

The  story  of  thy  life,  so  full  of  pain, 

Sad  disappointment  down  to  bitter  tears, 

Thy  brief  delight  soon,  soon,  to  flee  again, 

Has  torn  true  hearts  these  many  thousand  years. 

Thy  bright  lyre  shining  in  the  highest  heavens, 


Sole  relic  of  a  life  so  sad  and  sweet, 
Recalls  our  own  scant  happiness  that  leavens 
The  bitter  bread  of  failure  and  defeat. 


II 


Unconscious  babe,  around  thy  happy  head, 

Fanning  the  air  with  gauzy  pinions  bright, 

Sweet  dreams  and  airy  phantasies  are  led 

To  fill  thy  dawning  senses  with  delight. 

While  the  great  muse,  thy  mother,  hovers  still 

In  deep  solicitude  above  thy  bower, 

Within  thy  very  being  to  instil 

The  love  of  poesy  and  music's  power. 

And  from  Olympian  heights  of  majesty 

Thy  father  fondly  smiles  upon  his  own, 

And  promises  both  gods  and  men  shall  see 

Apollo's  lyre  descending  to  his  son. 

Gifted  in  all  above  our  mortal  measure 

As  there  thou  liest  under  Rhodope, 

Great  Pan  himself  bestows  on  thee  the  treasure 

Of  wondrous  skill  in  woodland  minstrelsy. 

For,  in  the  years  to  come,  he  can  foretell 

How  closely  interknit  thy  fate  shall  be 

With  that  of  one  whom  now  he  loveth  well — 

His  own  most  favored  Nymph,  Eurydice. 

And  now  the  ceaseless  flight  of  passing  years 
Has  brought  the  babe  to  life's  gay  morning  time: 
Midst  childish  joys,  too  young  as  yet  for  tears, 
Even  now  he  sweeps  the  lyre  with  touch  sublime. 
O  happy  child  in  these  thine  hours  of  bliss, 
Thine  only  teachers  Nymphs  and  Naiads  bright, 
Who  teach  thee  all  that  sweet  and  lovely  is, 
Obedience  to  the  gods,  and  music's  might. 


13 


Too  soon,  alas!  the  childish  days  are  o'er, 

And  we  behold  him  here  a  stripling  grown. 

All  men  his  living  harmonies  adore. 

He  cometh  now  at  last  into  his  own. 

The  sweet  compulsion  of  his  wistful  strain 

The  savage  lion  to  his  feet  has  drawn: 

Thrilled  into  gentleness  by  music's  pain, 

The  leopard  dwells  beside  the  timid  fawn. 

Each  bird  and  beast  becomes  his  willing  thrall, 

Hovering  and  playing  round  him  as  he  goes, 

Nor  tear  themselves  from  the  sweet  yearning  call 

Which  ever  from  that  charmed  lyre  flows. 

The  shivering  heartstrings   throb  and   thrill   again 

In  unison  with  throbbing  of  the  lyre, 

And  quiver  with  a  rhythmic,  pulsing  pain, 

Swooning  in  billows  of  celestial  fire. 

The  sobbing  cry  of  souls  in  deepest  anguish, 

The  dark  despair  of  hope  forever  gone, 

Piteous  appeals  from  tortured  hearts  that  languish 

In  dungeons  quarried  in  the  living  stone : 

The  plaintive  call  of  desolating  sadness. 

The  wistful  following  of  hope  deferred, 

The  triumph  and  the,  joy  of  youthful  gladness, — 

All  these  within  those  magic  tones  are  heard. 

Now  comes  the  time  when  Fancy's  specious  smile 
Besets  young  hearts  with  visions  of  delight, 
Seeking  adventurous  spirits  to  beguile 
To  distant  lands  searching  for  fortune  bright. 
Yielding  at  length  to  this  imperious  call. 
With  his  companions,  heroes  of  old  Greece, 
He  sails  for  unknown  lands,  whate'er  befall, 
Seeking  far  Colchis  and  the  Golden  Fleece. 
Upon  a  lovely  morn  of  early  spring 
This  band  of  heroes  sailed  from  lolchos  forth, 
With  spirits  dancing  and  with  hope  a-wing, 
Eager  to  see  the  unknown  parts  of  earth. 
'4 


Bright  Phoebus  painted  all  the  ocean  o'er 
With  sparkling  rainbows  of  brisk  dashing  spray: 
While  gently  blowing  horns  of  Tritons  bore 
Good  omen  to  the  voyagers  on  their  way. 
Down  in  the  crystal  depths  were  clearly  seen 
The  daughters  of  Oceanus  at  play, 
Fair  maidens  in  their  coronals  of  green, 
More  lovely  than  the  flowers  of  early  May. 
And  out  upon  the  curling  ridgy  crests, 
Floating  among  the  dolphins  sporting  there, 
Sweet  Panope  in  all  her  beauty  rests 
Combing  the  glorious  sunlight  of  her  hair. 
For  many  days  over  the  blue  Aegean 
The  good  ship  followed  on  the  ebb  and  flow, 
While  the  young  heroes  sang  a  grateful  paean 
To  Aeolus,  whose  favoring  breezes  blow. 
After  long  weeks  upon  that  summer  sea 
The  ship  approaches  sunny  Lesbos'  shore, 
Where  such  a  welcome  waits  them  as  shall  be 
Granted   to  travelers  on   earth  no  more. 
Here  too,  alas!  end  of  thy  stricken  years, 
Down  drifting  through  the  pitying  seas  shall  come 
Thy  tortured  visage,  'mid  ambrosial  tears 
Of  Nymph  and  Nereid  to  its  final  home. 

The  marvel-breathing  legends  of  the  journey 

By  the  great  poets  have  been  sung  of  old, 

More  wondrous  far  than  knightly  joust  or  tourney, 

Or  kingly  meetings  on  the  cloth  of  gold. 

Well  was  it  for  each  primal  Argonaut 

That  the  young  Orpheus  was  of  the  crew, 

For  many  were  the  miracles  he  wrought 

With  his  sweet  lyre  as  o'er  the  foam  they  flew. 

When  the  fair  Sirens'  wistful  voices  called 

Drawing  the  very  hearts  and  souls  of  men 

To  their  destruction,  there  to  be  enthralled, 


And  never  come  among  their  kind  again, 
Then  Orpheus  by  the  magic  of  his  lyre 
Wrested  those  hesitating  hearts  away 
From  the  accomplishment  of  their  desire 
To  seek  the  fair  forms  on  the  ledges  gray. 
He  sang  a  strain  so  weirdly  wild  and  sweet 
That  even  the  Sirens  listened  with  delight, 
Forgetting,  in  the  music's  rhythmic  beat, 
Their  fate  approaching  black  as  darkest  night. 
And  later,  on  the  tossing  restless  seas, 
When  dire  disaster  threatened  ship  and  crew, 
His  music  softened  the  Symplegades 
To  ope  their  stony  jaws  and  let  them  through. 
Even  in  Colchis,  at  their  journey's  end, 
The  silver  lyre  controlled   the  mad  caprice 
Of  the  grim  dragon  stationed  to  defend 
From  all  intruders  the  famed  Golden  Fleece. 

Triumphant  now,  they're  on  their  homeward  course, 
Each  one  assured  of  an  immortal  name : 
Renowned  throughout  the  world  for  manly  force, 
Made  mightier  still  by  dire  Medea's  fame. 

Ill 

And  so  they  came  to  their  own  land  again, 
And  separated,  each  one  to  his  own. 
Sweet  Orpheus,  with  spirits  pleased  amain, 
Quickly  to  Thracia's  flowery  meads  has  flown. 
Charming  and  thrilling  all,  as  long  before, 
Again  he  wanders  throughout  grove  and  vale, 
Where  the  glad  memory  of  days  of  yore 
Comes  with  each  fragrant  wind  blown  down  the 
dale. 

Then  on  a  day  it  happened,  as  he  played 
For  Nymphs  and  Dryads  gathered  round  to  share 
16 


The  flowing  strains,  there  came  a  lovely  maid 

As  sweet  and  simple  as  the  flowers  are. 

And  as  she  came  within  the  music's  sound, 

The  maiden  paled  and  faltered  and  stood  still : 

Her  heart,  drawn  from  her  breast  without  a  wound, 

Yearns  to  those  tones  that  bless  yet  seem  to  kill. 

Enchanted,  frozen  into  marble  pale, 

With  wistful   eyes  seeking  the  reason  why 

Entrancing  music  makes  her  spirit  quail — 

She  stood,  the  image  of  pure  poetry. 

What  of  the  bard  whose  magic  tones  have  wrought 
Such  strange  enchantment  for  this  lady  fair, 
Whose  brow,  as  crystal  clear,  shows  every  thought 
As  pure  and  innocent  as  mountain  air? 
Only  one  look  he  gave  her  when  she  came, 
But  with  that  look  he  'gan  the  maid  adore; 
Struck  through  and  through  by  Eros'  dart  of  flame, 
He  wavered  in  her  worship  nevermore. 
For  in  that  moment  when  his  blissful  eyes 
Beheld  Eurydice  so  pure  and  fair, 
Love  swept  his  soul  away,  and  sweet  surmise, 
And  doubt,  and  hope  were  left  contending  there. 
And  every  airy  phantasy  and  dream 
That  bright  Euphrosyne  brings  in  her  train, 
And  every  charming  sprite  of  field  or  stream 
Brought  lovely  visions  to  his  wildered  brain. 
Till  in  an  ecstasy  of  wild  desire 
His  fingers  o'er  the  golden  strings  he  swept, 
Waking  the  spirit  of  that  living  lyre 
Where  midst  her  tenderest  harmonies  she  slept. 
Then  liquid  notes  down  dropping  from  on  high 
With  sweetest  music  filled  the  listening  plain, 
As  when,  from  out  the  splendors  of  the  sky 
Some  shattered  rainbow  falls  in  iridescent  rain. 
The  golden  strings,  swept  by  celestial  fire, 
Covered  the  gamut  of  our  weal  and  woe; 
17 


Joy,  grief,  and  happiness ;   the  bard's  own  sire 
Could  never  bid  more  tuneful  numbers  flow. 
And  in,  and  out,  and  through  the  music's  maze, 
Now  here,  nowT  there,  flitting  on  fitful  wing, 
Recurring  ever,  comes  the  maiden's  praise. 
'Tis  love,  triumphant  love,  that  strikes  the  string! 
What   maid   such  wooing  sweet  could   long  with- 
stand ? 

Soon  to  enraptured  Orpheus  she  confessed 
Her  growing  love,  and  that  confession  spanned 
The  gulf  twixt  dire  despair  and  visions  blest. 

All  secrecy  was  laid  aside  at  last, 
And  the  blue  heavens  smiled  upon  their  love. 
Great  Pan  gave  them  fair  greeting  as  he  passed, 
And  Nymph  and  Naiad  with"  each  other  strove 
Who  should  bring  fairest  flowers  and  garlands  gay, 
And  dance  about  them  in  the  happy  fields 
Where,  as  young  lovers  should  in  month  of  May, 
He  sues  for  kisses,  she,  denying,  yields. 
So  for  a  time  their  blissful  life  ran  smooth, 
All  graces  and  perfections  thither  came, 
Basking  within  their  hapiness  as  doth 
A  horde  of  moths  about  a  torch's  flame. 
And  every  Nymph  within  the  laughing  mead, 
And  every  Naiad  of  the  crystal  spring, 
And  Satyrs  piping  on  the  slender  reed, 
And  every  warbling  bird  on  gleaming  wing, 
And  Zephyr  of  the  cooling  restful  breeze, 
And  airy  sprites  in  lilies'  cups  who  dwell, 
All  gather,  playing  'neath  the  whispering  trees, 
Drawn  by  the  magic  of  their  love's  sweet  spell. 
And  with  them  came  the  train  of  Fancy  bright, 
Splendors  and  dreams  and  sweet  imaginings, 
And  sighing  breaths  of  amorous  delight, 
And  steadfast  Harmony,  from  Joy  that  springs; 
These  hovering  about  the  happy  pair, 
18 


Nestle  within  each  clinging  golden  tress, 
And  twine  like  tendrils  round  that  lady  fair, 
Whom  by  their  presence  they  enchant  and  bless. 

IV 

But  on  a  fatal  and  accursed  day, 
As  sweet  Eurydice  was  wandering 
Through  the  tall  grass,  upon  her  sunny  way, 
She  felt  the  spiteful  adder's  lethal  sting. 
No  time  to  bid  her  loving  lord  farewell, 
But  swept  at  once  along  the  downward  path 
That  leads  to  Pluto's  regions,  that  dread  hell 
Where  all  are  gathered  after  earthly  death. 
Her  moaning  cries  unanswered  must  remain, 
For  Orpheus  has  crossed  full  many  a  hill, 
Soothing  and  shielding  other  hearts  from  pain 
Which,  soon,  Oh  soon,  his  stricken  breast  shall  fill. 
Then  was  her  absence  known,  and  now  the  wood 
Reechoes  to  the  wild  despairing  cries 
Of  Nymph  and  Naiad  and  each  spirit  good 
Searching  her  path  with  wide  fear-stricken  eyes. 
And  when  upon  the  fatal  spot  they  strayed 
Where  the  dull  adder's  loathly  coil  was  spread, 
One  drop  of  that  dear  blood  upon  a  blade 
Of  shrinking  grass,  betrayed  the  deed  of  dread. 
O  cursed  beast,  forever  doomed  to  crawl 
Upon  thy  belly  through  the  mud  and  slime, 
Forever  shall  man's  wrath  upon  thee  fall, 
Loathing  shall  follow  thee  to  end  of  time. 

Who  shall  describe  the  wild  drear  loneliness 
Of  Orpheus  as  he  strays  among  the  hills 
Thinking  upon  each  loving  kind  caress 
Of  the  dear  Nymph  whose  loss  his  spirit  kills? 
No  softening  tear  is  loosened  from  those  eyes 
Wide  open,  straining  over  field  and  dell, 
19 


Seeking  the  slender  graceful  form  that  lies 
Forever  graven  in  each  crystal  well. 
The  spirit  of  his  lyre  distraught  did  go, 
Her  music  turned  to  sad  complainings  drear, 
Without  the  master's  hand  to  guide  her  woe, 
Low  shuddering  moans  alone  may  reach  the  ear. 
Sweet  stricken  bard,  all  Nature  shares  thy  grief: 
The  shivering  aspen  whispers  soft  and  low, 
The  willow  droops  each  slender  shining  leaf 
And   through   the   years  still   bears  thy   weight   of 

woe. 

The  sombre  pine  threw  down  his  choicest  cones 
When  sighing  Zephyr  told  the  dismal  tale, 
And  wept  balsamic  tears,  amid  his  moans, 
Whose  sad  funereal  fragrance  filled  the  vale. 
Each  weeping  lily  from  its  silver  vase 
Pours  forth  its  treasured  store  of  dewry  wine, 
And  toward  the  smiling  sky  turns  not  its  face, 
iJut  drooping  sadly  there  doth  still  repine. 
And  all  the  Nymphs  and  Naiads  who  erstwhile 
Had  basked  within  the  sunshine  of  her  love, 
Remembering  that  pure  heart  so   free  from   guile, 
Now  grieved  heartbrokenly  as  mourning  dove. 
Rut  tenderest  sympathy  avails  not  here. 
Distracted  Orpheus  roams  the  hills  alone, 
Seaching  the  wilds  without  or  hope  or  fear, 
His  life  one  sad  and  dreary  monotone. 

At  last  a  sudden  stern  resolve  possessed 
His  bleeding  spirit,  and  he  turned  to  go 
To  that  dim  unknown  land  in  farthest  west 
Where  opes  the  portal  to  the  realms  below. 
And  as  he  journeyed  on  his  dreadful  way- 
He  called  with  mad  intensity  upon 
His  mighty  mother,  for  her  aid  and  stay, 
And  to  his  father  on  his  fiery  throne. 
Beseeching  them  in  the  dear  name  of  love 
20 


To  help  him  now  in  his  great  agony, 

To  find  such  tones  as  Pluto's  heart  should  move, 

And  bend  the  will  of  stern  Persephone. 

Full  many  times  the  moon  did  wax  and  wane 
Before  he  reached  the  gloomy  groves  that  stand 
Surrounding  the  grim  portal  to  the  pain 
And  suffering  of  iron  Pluto's  land. 
Now  as  he  entered  on  the  dismal  way, 
Strange  plants  surrounded  him  on  every  side; 
The  deadly  nightshade  that  doth  ever  slay 
All  living  things  that  near  it  would  abide. 
And  its  malignant  potency  was  shown 
By  pitiful  dead  songsters  of  the  air 
Thickly  about  the  fatal  bushes  strewn, 
Slaughtered  for  tasting  of  those  berries  fair. 
And  just  beyond  a  mournful  sight  was  seen 
Where,  gasping  out  its  final  fainting  breath, 
A  tiny  humming  bird  of  emerald  green 
Was  folded  in  the  vile  and  sticky  sheath 
Of  a  strange  murderous  plant,  whose  honied  leaves 
Possess  the  dreadful  and  uncanny  power 
Of  closing  round  all  humming  honey  thieves, 
And  the  poor  helpless  victim  to  devour. 
And  loathsome  pulpous  fronds  of  spotted  plants 
Whose  noisome  exhalations  choke  the  breath, 
Among  whose  grisly  roots  there  ever  haunts 
The  viper  with  the  forked  tongue  of  death. 
And  mosses  like  a  million  coffin  worms 
Planted  on  end  and  writhing  in  the  dusk, 
And  cactus  grim  that  deepest  scorn  affirms 
For  foliage,  threatens  with  thorn-pointed  tusk, 
And  hideous  blotchy  leaves  of  creeping  vines 
That  cumber  every  stately  forest  tree, 
Whose  baleful  grapes  are  pressed  to  make  the  wines 
Poured  for  their  victims  by  the  Furies  three. 
Each  slender  graceful  plant  that  thrills  the  heart 
With  pleasure  when  in  flowery  meadows  seen, 
21 


Has  here  its  swollen  bloated  counterpart 
Distorted  into  ghastly  livid  green. 

Unwittingly  to  this  grim  region  come, 
The  poet,  heaving  many  a  thankful  sigh, 
Emerged  from  out  that  pestilential  home 
Of  horrors  which  all  Nature's  laws  defy. 
For  now  those  monstrous  forests  terminate 
And  the  undaunted  traveler  attains 
A  rocky  region,  sad  and  desolate, 
Wherein  the  very  soul  of  silence  reigns. 
And  as  he  presses  on  his  unknown  way, 
He  sees  the  nagged  crags  now  higher  grown. 
The  path  along  which  without  stop  or  stay 
He  hastens  breathlessly,  winds  ever  down, 
Leading  at  last  into  a  jagged  cleft 
Where  lightning's  shock  has  sundered  hill  from  hill, 
And  through  the  space  by  strokes  Titanic  reft 
From  solid  rock,  it  plunges  dowrnward  still. 
Here,  close  beside  the  narrow  shelving  way, 
A  raging  torrent's  mighty  force  is  spent, 
Covering  the  rocks  with  mists  of  driving  spray, 
Making  more  hard  that  perilous  descent. 
But  with  a  courage  born  of  wild  despair 
He  stumbles  down  the  treacherous  incline, 
Upholden,  though  he  knows  it  not,  even  there 
By  great  Apollo's  shielding  love  divine. 
At  this  there  yawned  before  him  black  as  night, 
Made  terrible  by  snarling  beasts  who  fought 
And  tore  each  other  in  their  furious  might, 
The  gateway  to  the  regions  that  he  sought. 
Not  even  here  he  faltered,  but  still  pressed 
Into  that  channel  through  earth's  bowels  riven, 
For  the  wild  longing  in  his  stricken  breast 
Was  stronger  than  or  earth  or  hell  or  heaven. 
When  lo!  the  dismal  entrance  passed  and  won, 
He  finds  it  but  a  vain  deluding  masque, 
For  of  the  raging  beasts  the  sound  alone 
22 


Remained  to  fright  him  from  his  heavy  task. 
Malicious  imps  come  at  their  god's  behest 
To  mime  and  juggle  in  the  darkness  there, 
With  foul  intent  to  end  his  pious  quest 
Now  fled,  their  mocking  laughter  heard  from  far. 
And  soon  the  rocky  hallway  makes  an  end : 
Then  straight  he  enters  to  a  strange  sad  land 
Whose   vague   faint  half-light,    (which  no  planets 

send,) 

Reveals  a  massive  arch  and  portal  grand. 
And  just  within  the  gloomy  portal's  centre 
Lieth  that  famed  three-headed  beast  of  yore, 
Who  never  yet  forbade  poor  mortal  enter, 
But  holds  him  prisoner  forevermore. 

This  final  barrier  passed,  dark  Pluto's  realm 
Now  opens  out  before  him  far  and  wide 
Beneath  dim  twilight  that  doth  ever  whelm 
With  deep  despondence  all  who  there  abide. 
Vague  shadowy  swarms  of  spirits,  in  their  pain 
Seeking  that  solace  they  may  never  find, 
Drift  up  and  down  the  desolated  plain 
Like  swirling  leaves  before  autumnal  wind. 
These  spirits  drear  ne'er  had  their  mortal  frame 
Laid  piously  beneath  the  kindly  sod, 
Victims  eternal  of  that  earthly  shame, 
They  cower  beneath  the  scourgings  of  the  rod: 
For  never  may  they  cross  the  Stygian  river 
While  their  dull  lifeless  bodies  taint  the  air, 
Sweet  peace  and  quiet  visit  them,  Oh  never, 
But  leave  them  to  dark  desolation's  care. 

The  poet  wanders  now  across  the  plain 
To  a  great  river's  marge,  whose  farther  shore 
Is  hid  in  clouds  and  mists  and  driving  rain 
Which  cover  in  that  landscape  evermore. 
Then  out  of  the  dark  whirl,  amid  the  din 
Of  swollen  waters  rushing  through  the  night, 
23 


Comes  that  stern  boatman,  old  and  bent  and  thin, 
Rowing  full  calmly  in  the  flood's  despite. 
But  when  he  saw  a  living  mortal  there 
Amazement  filled  his  eyes,  and  then  he  frowned 
And  motioned  him  away,  but  still  would  stare, 
Seeking  to  understand,  but  nothing  found. 
Now  must  the  lyre  touch  aged  Charon's  heart, 
And  soon  pure  melody  filled  all  the  air: 
Strange  weird  emotions  did  its  tones  impart 
Sounding  thus  sweetly  in  the  turmoil  there. 
The  dim  and  ancient  boatman  trembled  then, 
Sighing  he  motioned  Orpheus  to  draw  near, 
Bidding  him  sing  those  wondrous  songs  again, 
Prolonging  thus  one  joy  in  life  so  drear. 
Then  straight  he  stretches  forth  his  shaking  hand 
And  guides  the  poet,  with  expression  new 
On  that  grim  upturned  face ;    and  from  the  land 
They    swept    and    drove     the     dreadful     currents 

through. 

Beyond  the  mists  and  battling  torrents  whirled, 
He  sees  arising  through  the  clearer  air, 
The  strange  mysterious  dreaded  under-world 
Where  Pluto  reigns  with  Ceres'  daughter  fair. 

Then  from  the  skiff  he  hastened,  and  along 
The  banks  he  wandered,  'neath  the  dreamy  spell 
Which  overtakes  all  those  who  roam  among 
The  mournful  meadows  of  the  asphodel. 
Here  were  those  peaceful  spirits  living  still 
The  lives  they  followed  in  the  upper  air, 
But  pale  and  colorless  beneath  the  will 
That  stifled  passion,  mirth  and  pleasure  there. 
But  ever  those  sad  souls  look  longing  back 
To  earthly  joys  fled  like  a  summer  dream, 
Save  only  those  who  could  endure  the  rack 
No  longer,  and  had  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream. 


The  sunless  hills  are  pierced  by  many  a  cell 
Burrowed  within  the  hard  and  rocky  soil. 
These  are  their  homes,  where  they  must  ever  dwell, 
Wrought  by  themselves  with  endless  care  and  toil. 
Roaming  among  these  meadows  dim  and  drear, 
Where  never  change  of  time  or  season  comes, 
Is  for  these  spirits  all  they  have  of  cheer 
Aside  from  that  of  their  own  darker  homes. 

Thrilling  with  pity  for  their  state  forlorn, 
The  anxious  poet  must  no  longer  stay, 
But  goes  where  hills,  to  eery  figures  worn, 
Border  forever  the  descending  way. 
For  now  the  path  again  leads  steeply  down 
'Neath  the  foundations  of  the  solid  earth, 
Midst  the  grim  darkness,  now  far  deeper  grown, 
Removed  beyond  all  thought  of  easeful  mirth. 
Here,  from  the  valleys  twixt  the  phantom  hills 
Strange  stealthy  monsters  of  most  hideous  mien, 
Whose  ravening  maw  the  heart  with  terror  fills, 
Watching  along  the  lonely  path  were  seen. 

Dragons  whose  eyes  dart  jetted  streams  of  flame, 
And  giants  of  the  deadly  serpent  race, 
And  that  behemoth  whose  unwieldy  frame 
Blanches  with  fear  the  boldest  human  face. 
Besides  were  elfins  flying  through  the  mirk, 
Shrieking  and  wailing  like  a  soul  in  pain : 
None  of  the  throng  would  any  labor  shirk 
That  might  send  Orpheus  fleeing  back  again. 
But  none  of  these  grim  shapes  had  power  to  harm, 
Only  to  sight  and  hearing  were  they  bold, 
So  on  he  passed,  though  sooth  to  say,  alarm 
Had  pinched   his  face  and  shrunk  his  blood  with 
cold. 


Anon  he  sees  a  ponderous  iron  gate 

Which  radiate  bars  full  cunningly  enforce, 

Across  the  face  of  whose  firm  forged  grate 

Stand  letters  hammered  out  both  rough  and  coarse. 

Ages  thereafter,  that  divinest  soul 

Whose  spirit  straight  from  that  of  Orpheus  sprang, 

Made  the  same  journey  through  these  regions  foul, 

Guided  by  him  who  of  Aeneas  sang. 

He  hath  writ  large  the  dimly  lettered  scroll 

So  rudely  wrought  upon  this  gateway  drear. 

Those  words  of  terror  through  the  ages  roll, 

"All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 

The  sullen  gate  swung  gratingly  ajar, 

While  Orpheus,  aghast  with  awe  and  fear, 

With  sinking  heart  passed  that  forbidding  bar 

Enclosing  these  sad  souls  in  torment  here. 

Then  entered  he  a  region  full  of  pain 

And  suffering  that  nevermore  shall  cease; 

Where  sobs  and  moans  and  stifled  cries  in  vain 

Appeal  to  vacancy  and  empty  space. 

Here  the  dim  flickering  light  can  just  reveal 

A  spacious  hall  through  which  the  wild  winds  rave, 

Revolving  Ixion's  huge  wooden  wheel, 

Which  heaven's  will  has  made  his  living  grave. 

Driven  forever  in  the  dizzy  whirl, 

His  serpent  bonds,  writhing  in  maddened  fear, 

Draw  tighter  still  their  loathsome  slimy  coil, 

While  hissing  threats  ever  assail  his  ear. 

Here  his  ungrateful  treachery  so  vile 

To  highest  Jove,  he  rues  day  after  day, 

Longing  forever  for  the  sun's  bright  smile 

Across  the  laughing  meads  of  Thessaly. 

Near  by,  a  vast  and  dimly  lighted  cave 
Whence  groans  and  piteous  cries  forever  come, 
26 


The  shuddering  air  repeats,  wave  after  wave, 
Those  sounds  of  agony  amid  the  gloom. 
Here,  sating  the  grim  vultures'  bloody  thirst, 
Must  suffer  while  the  endless  ages  run 
That  dastard  giant,  for  his  crime  accurst 
'Gainst  her  who  had  Apollo  for  a  son. 

There,  in  a  space  below  a  toppling  cliff, 

That  Phrygian  king  stands  in  a  mimic  sea, 

Consumed  with  thirst,  his  joints  with  terror  stiff, 

He  ever  cries  for  help  that  may  not  be. 

The  laden  fruit  trees  growing  near  his  face 

Bend  back  their  boughs  when  he  would  reach  them 

there, 

Ever  tormented  by  the  sight  of  grace, 
Ever  he's  doomed  to  disappointment  drear. 
Well  may  he  rue  that  ghastly  feast,  whereto 
Was  bid  each  high  Olympian  on  his  throne : 
His  false  and  babbling  tongue  well  may  he  rue, 
Betraying  secrets  that  were  not  his  own. 
And  not  alone  he  suffers,  for  the  seed 
Of  pride  and  arrogance  that  he  had  sown 
Within  his  children's  breasts,  has  for  its  meed, — 
His  daughter  rendered  childless,  turned  to  stone. 

Still  further  on  the  poet's  eye  doth  meet 
A  hill,  whose  sharp  precipitous  incline 
Is  rendered  glassy  smooth  by  slipping  feet 
Which  for  long  ages  labor  here  in  vain. 
Here,  while  his  sweating  brow  and  panting  breath 
Betray  the  dire  exertion  of  his  toil, 
King  Sisyphus,  still  striving  underneath 
A  monstrous  stone  which  must  forever  roll 
Downward  again  when  near  the  summit  high, 
Forever  urges  it  with  labors  vast 
To  mount  the  eminence,  and  quiet  lie 
Upon  the  top,  and  give  him  rest  at  last. 
27 


Divine  communication  never  told 

The  crime  for  which  this  punishment  was  given, 

But  well  we  may  believe  his  spirit  bold 

Was  full  insulting  to  the  powers  of  heaven. 

So  there  he  labors,  in  the  Furies'  grasp, 

Nor  may  that  stone  the  longed-for  summit  win, 

Forever  must  he  strain  and  pant  and  gasp 

To  pay  the  penalty  of  deadly  sin. 

Deeper  within  this  inner  shrine  of  woe 
The  trembling,  heartsick,  piteous  poet  sees, 
There,  in  the  darkness,  where  the  waters  flow, 
The  sinful  souls  of  the  Danaides. 
With  painful  toil  and  unremitting  care 
Vast  brimming  jars  they  from  the  stream  must  lift, 
And  pour  them  endlessly  within  the  mawT 
Of  gaping  cisterns  in  a  torrent  swift  ; 
For  well  they  know  their  labors  here  will  last 
Until  these  cisterns  to  the  brim  are  filled ; 
Nor  can  they  see,  within  the  darkness  cast 
About  them,  that  the  end  is  still  withheld. 
Great  shards  are  broken  from  the  bottom  deep 
Of  each  huge  thirsting  implement  of  clay. 
Whence  purling  rivers  bubble  forth  and  sweep 
All  hope  of  ended  labor  far  away. 

And  many  more  within  these  granite  walls 
Are  here  condemned  so  suffer  endless  woe. 
Here  even  the  shadow  of  a  hope  ne'er  falls 
Across  these  lives  withered  by  tortures  slow. 
Forever  groans  and  wailings  fill  the  air. 
Wrung  from  sad  hearts  amid  their  torments  sore. 
'Mongst  shrieks  and  curses  foul  and  hopeless  prayer 
These  stricken  souls  must  linger  evermore. 

Fainting  and  desperate,  the  poet  turns 
And  hastens  to  the  grim  enclosing  gate. 
28 


A  sudden  dreadful  fear  within  him  burns 

Lest  in  his  agony  he  come  too  late. 

But,  as  it  were  at  some  divine  behest, 

The  gate  swings  open  grudgingly  and  slow, 

And  safe  from  out  that  terrifying  quest 

He  now  emerged,  stunned  by  compassion's  blow. 

VI 

With  footsteps  faltering  and  heart  cast  down 

Again  he  turns  into  the  twilight  gray. 

In  thought  he  hears  those  tortured  spirits  moan, 

Nor  will  those  hopeless  wailings  pass  away. 

Onward  he  wanders  far  into  a  vale 

Whose  bordering  hills  are  pierced  with  darksome 

caves, 

Where  dim  mysterious  forms  his  path  assail, 
But  whose  assaults  his  steadfast  spirit  braves. 
Here  dwells  that  shameful  and  incestuous  brood, 
Offspring  of  Death  and  his  vile  sister,  Sin, 
An  evil  and  malicious  multitude, 
On  pinions  bat-like,  tendinous  and  thin. 
Foul  Treachery  still  stabbing  in  the  back, 
And  downcast  Shame  with  her  averted  face, 
And  Jealousy  stretched  ever  on  the  rack 
Whose  winch  is  turned  by  Falsehood's  legioned  race. 
And  baleful  Murder,  with  his  bloodshot  eye, 
And  Lust,  forever  by  his  passions  swept ; 
And  those  twin  vices  creeping  furtive  by 
Are  grasping  Avarice  and  Greed  yclept. 
And  legions  more  of  that  malignant  breed 
With  shrieks  and  howlings  sweep  athwart  his  way; 
But  his  pure  soul,  proof  'gainst  their  utmost  deed, 
Baffles  them  still  and  robs  them  of  their  prey. 

So  faring  on  to  calmer  regions  comes 
The  poet,  till,  mid  meadows  dim,  he  sees 
29 


A  placid  stream  whose  current  never  foams, 
But  flows  forever  on  in  restful  peace. 
And  here  and  there  along  its  grassy  shore 
Come  wandering  spirits,  bitten  by  the  pain 
Of  keenest  memory  of  days  of  yore, 
Whose  joys  departed  shall  not  come  again. 
These  throw  themselves  lengthwise  upon  the  turf 
And  drink  deep  draughts  of  the  quiescent  stream, 
When  rolling  billows  of  oblivion's  surf 
Sweep  memory  away  like  troubled  dream. 
When  this  he  saw  he  would  no  longer  stay, 
But  wandered  further  from  the  river's  brim ; 
For  Lethe's  waters  wash  the  past  away, 
And  memory  was  all  the  world  to  him. 

Then  as  he  wandered,  lighter  grew  the  air, 
And  ever  hurrying  spirits  passed  him  by 
Till  in  the  distance  rose  a  palace  fair 
Whose  towers  and  battlements  reached  far  on  high. 
Through  the  chief  portal  of  these  massed  piles 
Go  streaming  hosts  of  spirits  sad  and  drear, 
For  mighty  Pluto  in  these  gloomy  aisles, 
With  his  three  helpers,  sits  in  judgment  here. 

And  then,  Oh  god  of  love,  stand  by  him  now! 

Far  in  advance,  amidst  the  press  he  sees 

That  slender  form,  that  golden  hair  whose  glow 

Is  dearer  far  than  sunlight  to  his  eyes. 

Then  from  his  inmost  heart  arose  a  cry 

That  shrilled  above  the  rustling  of  the  throng 

Which  straightway  parted,  looking  lovingly 

On  him  who  was  himself  love's  spirit  strong. 

"Found,  found,  at  last!     Gods,  but  the  time  was 

long! 

Thou  dream  and  glory  of  this  riven  breast! 
Turn,  turn,  Oh  turn,  thou  source  of  all  my  song, 
And  bring  this  desolated  bosom  rest!" 
30 


With  startled  eyes  brimming  with  love's  desire, 
She  turned  to  fly  into  the  wished-for  haven 
Of  his  dear  arms,  but  Pluto's  edict  dire 
Prohibits  freedom  until  judgment  given. 

VII 

So  was  she  swept  out  of  his  yearning  view. 

Now  must  he  win  her  back,  whate'er  befall. 

With  heart  on  fire  and  courage  spurred  anew 

He  pressed  into  that  mighty  judgment  hall. 

The  sight  that  met  his  eyes  on  entering  there 

Might  well  the  kingliest  human  mind  o'erwhelm. 

Gold,  silver,  gems,  in  vast  profusion  rare, 

All  gathered  from  their  home  in  Pluto's  realm. 

Here  was  a  pillar  reaching  to  the  height 

Of  vaulted  arches  lost  amid  the  gloom, 

One  shaft  of  limpid,  sea-green  malachite, 

Like  tenderest  lily's  bud  before  the  bloom. 

Yonder  from  out  the  gem-encrusted  wall 

A  graceful  archway  leaps  forth  into  space; 

Of  purest  jasper  were  the  ashlars  all, 

With  softest  hammered  silver  held  in  place. 

Looking  more  closely  he  could  see  that  all 

The  pillars  glowing  in  their  lustrous  sheen 

Were  each  a  shaft  of  precious  mineral. 

Never  the  like  upon  the  earth  was  seen. 

For  chrysoprase  was  there,  and  amethyst, 

And  lapis  lazuli  blue  as  the  sea, 

And  agate  like  entangled  vines  in  mist, 

And  jade  and  topaz  and  chalcedony. 

Upon  the  summit  of  each  pillar  high, 

Of  beaten  gold,  wrought  skilfully  and  well, 

A  capital  was  placed  oh  which  the  eye 

Could  see  fair-carved  the  mournful  asphodel. 

The  onyx  walls  were  crusted  thick  with  gems 


For  kingly  diadem  or  sceptre  fit. 

Amid  the  darkness  of  that  hall,  their  gleams 

By  contrast  made  the  place  more  dimly  lit. 

And  all  those  sparkling  walls  of  fairest  stone 

Were  carved  with  scenes  familiar  in  that  hell. 

Of  birds  or  trees  or  flowers  there  was  not  one, 

Save  only  the  sad  lily  asphodel. 

His  anxious  eye  at  last  is  turned  to  see 

Where  those  grim  powers  in  sternest  judgment  sit, 

There  mid  the  growing  gloom  it  seems  to  be 

Only  a  place  for  deeds  of  darkness  fit. 

The  awful  dais  whence  they  all  look  down 

Upon  the  crowded  spaces  in  their  might, 

Is  builded  of  the  rarest  marble  stone, 

Black  as  the  darkest  hour  of  starless  night. 

And  there,  before  the  dais  is  a  space 

Railed  off  from  that  which  anxious  spirits  fill, 

Where  trembling  mortals  are  compelled  to  face 

Their  final  doom,  whether  for  good  or  ill. 

But  now  a  hushed  expectancy  pervades 
Those  waiting  spirits,  and  from  out  the  gloom 
Comes  a  procession  whose  uncertain  shades 
Most  dismal  'mongst  the  gorgeous  columns  loom. 
First  came  those  Cretan  brothers,  children  dear 
Of  fair  Europa  and  of  mighty  Jove : 
In  judgment  robes  voluminous  and  sheer 
Which  rustle  warningly  as  on  they  move. 
Then  Aeacus,  the  keeper  of  the  gate, 
Who  with  these  brothers  sits  in  judgment  here; 
All  three  were  far  above  all  love  or  hate, 
Or  coward  weakness  or  untoward  fear. 
And  ranged  about  on  either  hand  he  sees 
Those  grim  attendants  of  the  court  of  hell, — 
The  Harpys  and  the  stern  Eumenides, 
Whose  punishment  of  crime  is  fierce  and  fell. 
But  still  within  the  centre  of  them  all 
32 


Two  seats  were  left  for  the  great  king  and  queen. 

And  now  from  far  beyond  the  onyx  wall 

The  royal  cortege  moved  upon  the  scene. 

Elfins  and  demons  their  great  master's  will 

In  swiftest  flight  to  its  fruition  bring; 

And  hooded  ghosts  and  imps  whose  duty  still 

Is  doing  his  behests  on  flitting  wing. 

And  fairest  Nymphs,  sent  by  great  Jove's  decree 

As  fit  attendants  on  the  stolen  queen, 

But  veiled  and  silent  all,  as  should  agree 

With  that  grim  court  where  pleasure  hath  not  been. 

Now  high  upon  the  dais  comes  the  form 

Of  Pluto,  his  dark  face  serene  and  grand, 

But  stern  and  sad  from  seeing  many  a  storm 

Of  pain  and  agony  beneath  his  hand. 

Then,  at  the  last,  among  these  Stygian  bowers, 
He  saw — cursed  ever  by  the  memory 
Of  sunny  fields  and  warbling  birds  and  flowers — 
The  sombre  eyes  of  rapt  Persephone. 
That  flower-like  face,  for  love's  entrancement  fit, 
Was  shadowed  by  long  years  of  nether  gloom; 
That  perfect  mouth  and  lips  as  honey  sweet,. 
Were  like  fair  roses  reft  of  their  perfume. 
And,  Oh  the  pity  of  it!  now  he  sees 
Between  her  eyes,  across  her  features  fair, 
Stern  lines  that  surely  bode  no  good  to  these 
Sad  spirits  waiting  for  their  judgment  here. 
Soon  were  they  seated  and  the  court  began. 
Swiftly  to  each  was  meted  out  his  fate; 
And  rapidly  those  imps  and  demons  ran 
Conveying  mortals  to  their  last  estate. 

Now  doth  his  heart  stop  beating;  at  the  bar, 
With  pleading  eyes,  in  all  her  purity, 
Emblazoned  in  his  vision  like  a  star, 
Stands  she  whom  still  he  seeks,  Eurydice. 
33 


No  charge  was  made,  her  life  was  without  flaw, 

Her  record  blameless,  and  she  only  came 

Before  that  bar  obeying  the  strict  law 

Which  deals  with  good  and  bad  in  forms  the  same. 

With  kindly  eyes  the  listening  judges  smiled 

And  told  her  she  was  free  to  go  and  come, 

While  the  great  queen  with  gesture  sweet  and  mild, 

Bade  her  among  these  halls  to  make  her  home. 

But  with  entreaty  filling  every  tone 

She  begged  to  be  returned  to  Orpheus'  side, 

There  where  among  the  hills  he  wandered  lone, 

In  his  dear  presence  would  she  still  abide. 

But  grim  and  stern  each  judge's  face  was  seen, 

The  law's  unchanging  course  must  have  its  way, 

Each  mortal  who  upon  the  earth  had  been 

Must  in  this  land  of  spirits  ever  stay. 

With  piteous  eyes,  whose  voiceless  pleading  calls 

For  help  in  this  her  dire  extremity, 

She  turns  to  Orpheus  who  instant  falls 

Upon  his  knees  before  Persephone. 

With  some  vague  memory  of  days  gone  by, 

She  nods  a  kind  permission  to  him  there, 

For  in  his  agonized  beseeching  eye 

She  reads  the  presence  of  some  unknown  prayer. 

Uprising  then,  he  took  the  silver  lyre 
And,  with  a  prayer  for  his  great  mother's  aid, 
And  inspiration  from  his  heavenly  sire, 
His  fingers  o'er  the  magic  strings  he  laid. 
Never  before  nor  since  has  music's  soul 
Been  poured  in  such  a  rhapsody  divine. 
Such  tones  among  the  vaulted  arches  roll 
As  with  the  quivering  heartstrings  intertwine. 
The  haunting  sweetness  of  that  minor  strain, 
Filled  with  divinest  heartbreak,  echoes  still, 
Smiting  the  bosom  with  a  sudden  pain 
So  sharp  that  e'en  the  dryest  eye  must  fill. 
34 


Then  as  he  sang,  within  the  minds  of  all 
Grew  up  fair  visions  of  the  outer  world. 
Plainly  as  if  emblazoned  on  a  wall 
Full  many  a  scene  before  them  was  unfurled. 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  through  lofty  pines 
Along  the  autumnal  barren  mountain  side, 
High  terraced  hills  with  purple  clustered  vines, 
O'erlooking  valleys  deep  and  rivers  wide. 
Fantastic  billowing  of  golden  grain, 
The  beauties  of  a  flower-bespangled  lea, 
The  sweet  refreshment  of  a  summer  rain, 
The  open  glory  of  a  wind-swept  sea. 
Then  from  the  viewless  spaces  of  the  sky 
Drifts  down  a  sheer  delirium  of  joy; 
'Tis  the  blithe  skylark  only  could  supply 
Such  ecstasy  of  happiness  without  alloy. 
Then  arching  over  them  come  sparkling  skies 
Where  great  Diana's  lovely  face  is  shown: 
About  her  every  shimmering  cloudlet  flies, 
Sitting  triumphant  on  her  crystal  throne. 
Beneath  that  witching  light  are  dusky  groves 
Where  hidden  flowers  the  charmed  sense  assail, 
And  Nymphs  and  Dryads  with  their  shepherd  loves 
In  blissful  murmurs  tell  the  world-old  tale. 

Now  to  Poseidon's  realm  their  thoughts  are  turned, 
Where  Lycidas,  (whose  dirge  no  man  may  mend,) 
Lies  deep  within  the  sapphire  caves  inurned, 
While  round  his  bier  the  loveliest  Nymphs  attend. 
Far  o'er  the  level  brine  the  snow-white  sails 
Of  graceful  argosy  and  pinnace  shine; 
From  sunny  climes  they  come,  with  wondrous  tales 
Of  joyous  life  in  lands  of  palm  and  pine. 
Changing  again,  their  docile  thoughts  are  led 
To  tales  of  love  and  sacrifice  divine: 
Again  doth  Ariadne  spin  the  thread 
That  shall  her  lover's  tortuous  path  define. 
35 


Once  more  they  hear  Andromeda's  low  moan, 
Too  fair  a  flower  for  that  grim  rocky  shore, 
While  flying  as  on  wings  of  tempest  blown, 
Comes  he  who'll  be  her  lover  evermore. 
Whatever  tales  of  sacrificing  love, 
Of  sweetest  constancy,  to  all  most  dear, 
Of  honor  set  all  riches  far  above, 
The  old  earth  offereth,   again  they  hear. 
Then  followeth  his  own  heart-broken  tale 
Of  love's  enchantments,  and  the  ecstasy 
Of  life  in  many  a  smiling  Thracian  vale 
Beneath  the  steepy  slopes  of  Rhodope. 
And  of  the  sudden  loss  that  crushed  him  down 
So  low  that  even  the  warning  hand  of  Fate 
Could  not  deter  from  braving  Pluto's  frown, 
Hoping  his  iron   will   to  mitigate. 
Then   in  the  very  throes  of  anguished  fear 
He  stretched  out  supplicating  arms  to  her 
Who   sat   with   eyes   inscrutable   and   drear, 
And  poured  forth  his  last  agonizing  prayer. 

"Dread  goddess  of  the  shadow  realm, 
Hear  my  heartbroken  cry. 
Affliction's  waters  me  o'erwhelm, 
Like  ship  am  I  without  a  helm 
In  seas  of  misery. 

Oh  be  thou  pitiful  to  me 

In  midst  of  my  deep  woe, 

Guide  thou  my  pinnace  through  the  sea, 

Preserve  me,  let  my  sorrows  flee 

Before  thy  gracious  bow. 

Remember  thou  on  Enna's  plain 
Thy  mother's  stricken  cry, 
Her  sudden  desolating  pain, 

36 


Her  tears  like  sad  autumnal  rain, 
Her  hopeless  agony. 

If  of  thy  love  for  her  one  trace 
Still  wrings  that  bosom  fair, 
Grant  me  the  blessing  of  thy  grace, 
Oh  turn  not  from  me  thy  sweet  face 
But  hearken  to  my  prayer. 

Shield  me  beneath  thy  mercy's  wing, 
Thee,  goddess,  I  implore, 
Such  songs  my  soaring  heart  shall  sing 
That  still  thy  boundless  praise  shall  ring 
Till  time  itself  is  o'er." 

He  ceased,  and  as  a  broken  lily  stands 
Drooping  within  the  sunlight  clear  and  pale, 
So  he  stood  waiting,  while  those  wizard  hands 
Were  powerless  as  the  new-fledged  nightingale. 

But  on  the  dais  where  the  judges  drear 

Sat  erst  in  solemn  pomp  and  majesty, 

Was  heard  the  sound  of  stifled  sobs,  the  tear 

Now  visited  those  eyes  of  destiny. 

The  cruel  Harpys  and  Eumenides, 

Who  still  unmoved  the  keenest  anguish  see, 

Now  joined  with  streaming  eyes  in  piteous  pleas 

That  all  the  poet's  prayer  should  granted  be. 

The  mortal  sages  earthly  grief  had  known, 

And  so  wept  openly,  nor  thought  it  shame, 

While  on  great  Pluto's  cheek  the  tears  ran  down 

More  searing  in  their  course  than  livid  flame. 

That  queenly  head  is  bended  low  at  last, 

Encircled  by  the  fair  embowed  arm, 

While  choking  sobs  that  follow  thick  and  fast 

Attest  how  deep  and  fierce  is  sorrow's  storm. 


37 


When  the  first  tempest  of  their  grief  was  spent 

All  turned  with  pleading  looks  to  Pluto  there, 

Who  with  still  swimming  eyes  his  vision  bent 

On  that  fair  head  low  lying  in  despair. 

'Neath  the  compulsion  of  his  wistful  gaze 

She  raised  her  face  one  moment  in  her  pain, 

When  lo,  a  miracle!  to  his  amaze 

He  saw  the  face  that  on  bright  Enna's  plain 

Had  swept  his  heart  awray.     All  trace  of  years 

Within  his  saddened  land  was  washed  away 

By  sweet  compassion's  touch.     Besprent  with  tears, 

She  seemed  a  rose  gemmed  with  morn's  dewy  spray. 

To  the  unspoken  question  in  his  eye 

A  Meeting  smile  made  answer  sure  and  sweet. 

Then  thus  to  him,  with  look  serene  and  high, 

Who  stood  before  the  mighty  judgment  seat. 

"Fair  son  of  the  great  Muse,  I  bid  thee  go: 

And  the  reward  of  thy  true  heart  shall  be, 

And  of  the  music  thou  hast  brought  below, 

The  maiden  of  thy  choice,  Eurydice. 

I  tell  thee  thou  mayst  lead  the  maiden  home, 

But  as  an  evidence  of  faith  in  me, 

See  that  thou  look  not  back,  whatever  come, 

Else  must  she  dwell  here  to  eternity." 

Down  to  the  red  core  of  his  surging  heart 
That  Thracian  poet-lover  trembled  then 
With  joy  so  keen  that  his  glad  eyelids  smart 
With  tears  of  thankfulness,  and  hope  again 
Sprang  vibrant  in  his  suffocating  breast. 
Among  the  gloomy  splendors  of  those  realms 
Forebodings  dire  his  courage  had  depressed 
Until  this  sudden  bliss  him  nigh  o'erwhelms. 
Now  from  the  dais  comes  a  misty  form, 
Deep  cowled  and  silent,  who  with  gesture  brief 
Points  to  the  sombre  entrance  through  which  swarm 

38 


The  hosts  of  spirits  in  their  hopeless  grief. 
Uplifting  then  his  glad  triumphant  face, 
The  poet  cast  one  final  look  around 
On  glories  marvelous  within  that  place 
Where  he,  and  he  alone,  had  mercy  found. 

Forth  from  the  presence  of  the  court  austere 

He  passed,  while  footfalls  light  as  thistledown 

Made  sweetest  music  to  his  listening  ear, 

In  softest  cadence  following  his  own. 

Dire  were  the  torments  that  he  underwent 

Obeying  Pluto's  last  commandment  stern. 

Ever  his  gaze  upon  the  ground  he  bent 

Lest  that  his  hungry  eyes  to  her  should  turn. 

So  on  they  fared  with  minds  and  hearts  elate, 

Past  poppied  Lethe,  through  the  vale  where  dwell 

The  vicious  brood  of  Sin,  past  that  dread  gate, 

Down  through  the  meadows  of  the  asphodel. 

Now  doth  the  Stygian  torrent  stop  their  way, 

But  by  decree  of  Pluto,  the  divine, 

Old  Charon  ferries  them  without  delay 

To  the  drear  plain  where  restless  souls  repine. 

Then  o'er  the  plain  and  through  the  portal  dim 

Where  sleeping  Cerberus  ne'er  openeth  eye; 

And  into  that  dark  corridor  and  grim 

Where  dwell  those  imps  of  aptest  mimicry. 

Now,  in  the  latest  stages  of  his  way, 

With  hope  and  joy  the  poet's  heart  beats  high. 

Soon  needs  no  longer  Pluto's  hest  obey, 

For  in  another  hour  they're  'neath  the  sky. 

Then  in  the  accents  of  that  honied  voice 

There  shrilled  a  loud  exceeding  bitter  cry 
For  instant  help.    Those  vicious  imps  rejoice 
To  see  that  Orpheus  turns  back  suddenly. 
Alas!  the  wretched  poet  only  sees 
Eurydice  swept  wailing  from  his  view. 
Cold  terror  doth  his  very  bosom  freeze, 
39 


And  while  he  lives  his  weakness  doth  he  rue. 
Then  as  the  giant  pine  on  Ida's  slopes 
Amid  the  blinding  crash  of  bolt  from  heaven 
Reels  to  its  fall,  so  mid  his  shattered  hopes 
Falls  Orpheus,  by  stroke  of  fortune  riven. 

As  o'er  his  whirling  brain  oblivion  crept, 

And  active  thought  and  consciousness  expire, 

His  straying  nerveless  ringers  overswept 

The  face  of  his  forgotten  silver  lyre. 

The  tortured  writhing  of  the  golden  strings 

Sobbed  out  a  cry  of  agonized  despair 

Such  as  a  desolating  sorrow  brings 

When  hope  is  crushed  by  long  unanswered  prayer. 

Now  breaks  that  loving  heart.     Oh  nevermore 
Shall  joy  or  gladness  visit  that  sad  breast. 
Never  those  lips  shall  smile,  but  still  implore 
Sweet  Death  to  give  his  wearied  spirit  rest. 


40 


PART  II 
THE  DEATH  OF  ORPHEUS 

Fair  Thrace,  thou  cradle  of  the  youth  of  song, 
Where  every  Nymph  and  Dryad  sweetly  sings, 
Roaming  thy  sunny  fields  and  vales  along 
While  to  their  joyous  strains  the  hillside  rings: 
Where  every  Satyr  pipes  on  tuneful  reed, 
And  nightingales  pour  out  their  melting  notes, 
Deep  down  within  thy  shadiest  covert  hid, 
Whence  to  the  ear  their  liquid  warbling  floats : 
Yet  hast  thou  other  scenes  more  bleak  and  drear, 
Where  Haemos  rears  his  rocky  crest  on  high, 
While  low-hung  clouds  droop  threatening  and  near, 
And  Strymon's  torrents  hurtle  racing  by. 
Here,  these  unfriendly  hills  and  peaks  among, 
Lived  for  a  time  he  whom  we  all  adore, 
His  lyre  attuned  alone  to  sorrow's  song 
Till  death's  release  on  fatal  Hebrus'  shore. 
Each  gentle  dweller  of  the  field  and  wood, 
Each  rushing  Faun,  and  Satyr  overbold, 
Each  dripping  Naiad  and  all  spirits  good 
The  pitful  sad  story  oft  have  told. 

Muse  of  the  pure  and  tender  lyric  song, 
Look  down  upon  thy  humble  servant  here, 
Thou  spirit  beautiful  and  sweet  and  strong, 
Oh,  listen  to  my  calling,  come  thou  near 
41 


And  touch  my  pen  with  thine  own  finger  white, 
And  breathe  into  my  soul  thy  sacred  breath, 
So  shalt  thou  help  in  fitting  strain  to  write 
The  story  of  his  suffering  and  death. 

After  his  wild  despair  at  Hades'  gate, 

When  Orpheus  fell  stricken  by  the  blow 

Dealt  to  his  shattered  hopes  by  hand  of  Fate, 

Oblivion  long  enfolded  him  from  woe. 

The  desolated  cry  of  golden  strings 

Struck  without  knowledge  or  a  sane  desire, 

Swept  backward   through  the  realm,  borne  on  the 

wings 

Of  the  sweet  spirit  of  that  living  lyre. 
Through  farthest  Hades,  even  to  the  ear 
Of  fair  Persephone  still  bowed  in  grief 
Awakened  by  those  strains  so  sweet  and  clear, 
Came  the  sad  cry  of  sorrow  past  relief. 
And  with  the  cry  arose  a  woeful  sight, 
For  pale  Eurydice  swept  fluttering 
Down  to  her  feet  in  broken  wavering  flight 
Like  butterfly  on  bruised  and  crumpled  wing. 
Stirred  to  compassion  by  the  bitter  cries, 
She  bade  a  dusky  spirit  at  her  side 
Fly  thither  where  the  poet  stricken  lies, 
And  bear  him,  all  unconscious,  o'er  the  wide 
Vast  stretches  of  the  sea  and  hill  and  plain 
That  lay  between  him  and  the  shady  groves 
Of  far  off  Thrace,  and  place  him  once  again 
Among  the  smiling  meadows  that  he  loves. 

And  now  the  poet  from  the  drowsy  swoon 
Slowly  awakens,  but  he  knows  not  where. 
To  his  dimmed  ears  there  comes  the  buzzing  tune 
Of  busy  bees  among  the  blossoms  fair. 
And  as  he  lieth  peaceful,  odors  rare 
Enchant  him  with  the  summer's  golden  breath, 
42 


Till  slowly  memory  returns  to  tear 

His  bosom  yet  anew  with  grief  like  death. 

His  roving  eye  in  deep  amazement  sees 
The  well  remembered  sylvan  scenes  of  yore, 
Whose  flowers  and  rivulets  and  waving  trees 
Shall  give  him  joy  or  pleasure  nevermore. 
Then  pierced  by  anguish  straight  doth  he  upstart, 
And  grasping  firm  the  sweet  enchanted  lyre, 
Onward  he  wanders,  death  within  his  heart, 
Quenched  now  forever  his  celestial  fire. 

The  pitying  Nymphs  and  Naiads  come  and  go 
Waiting  for  those  sweet  strains  he  sang  of  old: 
But  murmured  chords  of  deep  enshrouded  woe 
Are  all  that  issue  from  those  strings  of  gold. 
The  sluggish  weeks  and  months  pass  slowly  by. 
Time  brings  no  solace  to  his  riven  breast. 
Ever  the  image  of  Eurydice 
More  firmly  on  his  reeling  mind's  impressed. 
Unceasingly  he  singeth  of  her  loss 
While  many  a  lovely  maiden,  sweet  and  coy, 
Would  gladly  lift  from  him  his  heavy  cross 
And  lead  him  back  to  love's  delight  and  joy. 
His  mournful  thoughts  are  bent  on  her  alone 
Who  languishes  in  Hades  dark  and  drear, 
Far,  far  removed  from  warming  ray  of  sun, 
Or  song  of  birds  or  waters  running  clear. 
Enwrapt  in  this  fond  dream  he  sees  pass  by 
All  other  maidens  as  dim  shadows  there, 
Nothing  is  real  but  Eurydice, 
Still  to  his  eyes  his  living  lady  fair. 

Foredoomed  to  death,  he  wanders  from  the  plain 
And  seeks  the  rocky  cliffs  of  Haemos  high: 
There  amid  clouds  and  mists  he  mourns  in  vain, 
While  from  afar  is  heard  his  eery  cry. 
43 


Yet  higher  up  the  stony  mountain  side 

He  climbs,  still  breathing  out  the  name  so  dear; 

No  gentle  Nymph  doth  in  these  wilds  abide, 

Only  faint  Echo  wanders  sighing  here. 

Roaming  at  will,  he  finds  a  little  grot. 

Here  doth  he  slowly  fade  day  after  day. 

Feeble  the  hands  and  weak  that  long  have  taught 

The  strings  among  Pierian  songs  to  stray. 

Those  shapely  limbs  whose  slender  pliant  grace 

Has  carried  him  afar,  too  far  in  sooth, 

That  radiant  form,  that  clear  and  buoyant  face, 

Are  ravaged  now  by  gnawing  frailty's  tooth. 

And  veiled  sorrow  on  her  ebon  plume 

Forever  floats  above  his  drooping  head, 

So  that  he  walks  in  shadow,  whether  gloom 

Or  shine  be  o'er  the  rugged  hillside  spread. 

Seeing  strange  visions  now,  he  wanders  far. 
Ever  his  fancy  one  fair  face  deludes, 
Leading  him  onward  like  a  guiding  star 
To  the  deep  vales  where  the  dusk  silence  broods. 
And  as  he  goes,  he  deems  that  all  around 
He's  scattering  his  songs  so  wild  and  free. 
Alas!  the  strings  give  but  a  murmurous  sound, 
Like  the  deep  droning  of  the  laden  bee. 

So  wandering  fitful  through  the  rocky  pass, 
He  hies  him  on  to  rushing  Hebrus'  shore, 
Seeking  that  happiness  which  he,   alas, 
Shall  find  among  the  sons  of  men  no  more. 
Till,  straying  aimless  through  a  leafy  glade, 
He  sees  the  silver  gleam  of  women's  breasts 
And  snowy  sides,  the  dazzling  picture  made 
More  dark  the  background  upon  which  it  rests. 
With  thought  confused  in  his  dim  wildered  brain, 
He  sees  the  sheen  of  that  dear  golden  hair, 

44 


And  crying  out  his  joy  full  loud  and  plain, 
He  rushes  in  among  those  Maenads  fair. 

But  hate  and  fierce  resentment  in  them  burn 
'Gainst  one  who  dared  to  view  their  secret  rites: 
Forthwith  upon  that  wasted  form  they  turn 
Whose  eager  searching  eye  their  wrath  invites. 
Then  this  wild  rout,  among  the  sweet  green  leaves, 
Crazed  by  some  maddened  Bacchanalian  whim, 
Strike  the  foul  blow  that  all  the  world  bereaves, 
And  fragile  limb  is  rent  from  fragile  limb. 
Now  in  the  wanton  rage  that  license  breeds, 
His  head  and  lyre  adown  the  stream  are  sent: 
While  they,  forgetting  straight  their  ghastly  deeds, 
Again  throughout  the  forest  singing  went. 

Up  from  the  mangled  body  rose  the  sprite, 
Exultant,    throbbing   in   its  ecstasy, 
And  swifter  than  the  starry  meteor's  flight, 
Swept  down  at  last  to  join  Eurydice. 

A  gentle  spirit  of  the  mazy  wood 

Had  viewed  the  scene  with  horror-stricken  eyes, 

And  from  the  ghastly  copse,  bestrewn  with  blood, 

She  seeks  the  mount  where  springs  Pierian  rise. 

Swept  into  action  by  the  heartless  tale, 

The  sacred  Nine,  on  glorious  wings  outspread, 

Down  to  the  gloomy  forest  quickly  sail 

Where  that  sweet  shuddering  spirit  them  hath  led. 

Midst  flowing  tears,  with  tender  loving  care, 

The  sacred  limbs  are  gathered  from  the  earth, 

And  to  Olympus  the  loved  form  they  bear, 

Where  all  divine  and  splendid  things  have  birth, 

Where  beechen  shadows  waver  to  and  fro, 
Where  plaining  nightingales'   mellifluous  breath 
Makes  sweet  his  sepulchre,  they  laid  him  low, 
The  gold  and  vermeil  tinted  flowers  beneath. 
45 


But  when  Apollo  heard  the  tale  of  woe, 
Sitting  triumphant  in  his  fiery  car, 
Seizing  his  fell,  unerring,  golden  bow, 
In  wrath  he  dropped  adown  the  ether  far. 
Full   soon   that  cruel  band  of  Maenads   bold 
Had  reached  the  limit  of  their  earthly  quest, 
And  lay  disheveled  on  the  soft  brown  mould, 
Each  with  Apollo's  arrow  through  her  breast. 

For  many  a  rood  around  the  fatal  spot 

No  gentle  Nymph  nor  tree-born  Dryad  dwells. 

Each  Naiad  hath  forsook  her  pebbly  grot. 

Unheeded  now  the  crystal  fountain  wells. 

Those  fountains  soon  are  choked  with  leaves  and 

mould, 

And  give  no  moisture  to  the  thirsting  roots: 
The  grass  is  dead,  the  earth,  now  dry  and  cold, 
No  longer  nourishes  the  tender  shoots. 
Each  drooping  leaf  has  bowed  its  faded  head, 
Enmeshed  by  spider  and  the  blasting  worm ; 
The  trees  at  last  have  all  their  greenery  shed 
And  naked  bow  before  the  ruthless  storm. 
And  over  this  drear  spot  no  bird  beats  wing, 
But  looking  down   from  his  aerial   path, 
In  widest  circle  far  aside  doth  swing, 
Seeking  some  grove  not  cursed  by  Phoebus'  \vrath. 
For  many  ages  they  who  passed  might  view 
This  desert  strange  with  foliage  sere  and  brown — 
A  fitting  monument  for  that  mad  crew 
Who  dimmed  the  lustre  of  fair  music's  crown. 

Now  doth  the  Muse  with  light  compelling  touch 
Lead  where  the  Hebrus  rushes  dark  and  drear 
Twixt  sombre  banks,  while  winter's  frosty  clutch 
Is  felt  within  her  waters  chill  and  clear. 

Far,  far,  adown  her  restless  currents  ride 
46 


That  sacred  head  and  lyre  of  living  gold. 
And  lo!  in  order  due,  along  each  side, 
A  bright  procession,  lovely  to  behold. 
Fair  Nymphs  and  Naiads  and  Okeanids, 
And  Nereids  from  the  sapphire  caves  below, 
And  Tritons  whom  divine  Poseidon  bids 
Guard  them  wherever  waters  rest  or  flow; 
And  dolphins  on  their  undulating  path, 
And  hippocamps  with  blood  red  nostrils  wide, 
And  mane  outstreaming  on  the  gentle  breath 
Of  sparkling  breezes  flying  o'er  the  tide. 

And  so  throughout  the  land,  down  to  the  shore 

Where  spreads  the  isle-bespangled  sea  Aegean, 

Whence  great  Poseidon  ruleth  evermore 

The  dwellers  in  his  watery  empyrean. 

Liparian  Aeolus  imprisoned  all 

The  winds  that  scourge  the  ever-changing  sea, 

And  flowered  Zephyrus  to  him  doth  call 

And  bids  him  waft  those  relics  tenderly 

Down  to  the  Lesbian  shore,  whose  golden  sands, 

Shall  give  that  tortured  visage  peace  and  rest; 

Sheltered  from  every  act  of  cruel  hands, 

No  more  by  cheating  fate  to  be  distressed. 

So  on  they  move  through  pathless  waters  wide, 

Safeguarded   from   the  briny  monster's,  maw; 

Before  them  and  behind  the  Tritons  glide 

And  force  obedience  to  Poseidon's  law. 

The  ruffling  wavelets  in  their  rise  and  fall 

Give  to  the  lyre  a  gentle  swaying  motion, 

Whereat  there  rises  a  sweet  murmurous  call, 

Soothing  more  dreamfully  than  Morphean  potion. 

The  watery  cavalcade  sails  swiftly  on, 
Wafted  along  by  Zephyr's  fragrant  breath. 
Till,  slowly  sinking,  the  bright  summer  sun 
Incarnadines  the  daylight's  coming  death. 
47 


Now  Leto  comes,  and  with  her  shadowy  hand 
Spreads  her  dusk  veil  the  earth  and  ocean  o'er. 
Still  through  the  darkness  doth  the  mournful  band 
Press  onward  to  the  wooded  Lesbian  shore. 
Before  the  noon  of  night  fair  Dian's  orb 
Swings  quickly  o'er  the  far  horizon's  rim, 
Wherefrom  those  gracious  sea-born  Nymphs  absorb 
Comfort  as  down  its  silver  path  they  swim. 
And  when  Aurora's  dewy  lips  had  kissed 
From  off  the  earth  and  from  the  ocean  blue 
The  trailing  darkness  and  low-hanging  mist, 
Behold,  fair  Lesbos  framed  within  their  view. 

The  mighty  motion  of  the  morning  swell 

Wafted  the  lyre  full  gently  to  the  height 

Of  a  low  rocky  islet:  pearly  shell 

And  coral  pink,  and  shining  seaweed  bright 

Were  all  its  resting  place.     And  here  it  lay 

Forsaken,  on  that  lonely  island  wild, 

Until  the  coming  of  a  later  day 

When  it  should  shine  in  glory  undefiled. 

The  tearful  Nymphs  at  last  have  reached  the  end 
Of  this,  their  pious  quest,  and  from  the  seas 
With  slow  and  mournful  steps  their  way  they  wend, 
Amid  their  many-voiced  harmonies. 
The  weeping  Nereids  dig  with  rosy  shells 
A  grave  upon  the  peaceful  Lesbian  strand, 
And  where  the  hallowed  mound  the  surface  swells. 
They  lay  dark  cypress  boughs  with  snowy  hand. 
There  in  an  ilex  grove  that  sacred  head 
Lies  buried  by  the  ever-sounding  sea: 
Where  rhythmic  surges  round  its  lowly  bed 
Beat  out  their  thunderous  diapason  free. 
About  the  grave  beneath  the  sheltering  trees 
Immortal  amaranths  and  lilies  grow. 
The  song  of  birds  and  drowsy  hum  of  bees 
48 


Still  linger  near  his  face  who  loved  them  so. 
And  there,  among  the  groves,  the  nightingale 
Laments  in  saddest  notes  of  sorrowing: 
And  sweeter  song,  so  says  the  ancient  tale, 
Shall  never  bird  to  listening  mortal  sing. 

When  mighty  Jove  the  tale  of  sorrow  heard 
Of  this  sad  life  by  Fate's  decree  crushed  down, 
To  deep  compassion  was  his  bosom  stirred, 
Upon  his  brow  a  grave  and  thoughtful  frown. 
Then  swiftly  that  enchanted  lyre  he  grasped 
And  set  it  high  within  the  northern  skies. 
There,  to  the  universal  bosom  clasped, 
It  joins  creation's  spheral  harmonies. 
And  from  the  sapphire  deeps  its  golden  glow 
Burns  downward   through   earth's  dim   and   misty 

veil 

To  our  adoring  eyes  upraised  below, 
In  witness  of  the  truth  of  all  this  tale. 

Divinest  bard,  on  earth  there  singeth  still 
The  spirit  of  the  music  thou  hast  given. 
Thy  strains  the  hearts  of  erring  mortals  fill 
With  purest  happiness  this  side  of  heaven. 
Through  all  of  thy  great  suffering  and  pain, 
Out  of  the  scourgings  of  adversity, 
Sore  punished,   thou  hast  yet  this  final  gain, 
Thy  name  stands  ever  for  sweet   Constancy. 


AVE  DIANA 

Fair  goddess  of  our  hearts  and  of  the  night, 

Shedding  afar  thy  silver  glory  pure, 

Bathing  the  heavens  in  effulgence  bright. 

Who  else  could  so  attract  us  and  allure? 

Within  the  radiance  of  thy  crystal  beam, 

Where  all  of  witchery  and  charm  abide, 

Our  spirits  drift  as  on  a  summer  stream 

Twixt  flowery  banks  down  to  the  ocean  wide. 

And  out  across  the  silvery  ocean  vast 

We  float,  unmindful  of  the  flight  of  time. 

Lulled  by  soft  lapping  waves,  until  at  last 

They  bring  us  to  a  strange  and  wondrous  clime 

Where  all  is  clear  and  pure  and  radiant 

As  are  thy  beams,  thou  lovely  goddess  dear, 

Where  poesy  and  music  ever  haunt 

The  flowery  meads  and  waters  running  clear. 

Here  in  this  happy  land  no  sadness  dwells, 

Nothing  is  known  of  sorrow,  naught  of  fear, 

No  vain  regret  the  tortured  bosom  swells, 

And  suffering  has  never  entered  here. 

Throughout  the  land  are  fountains  sweet  and  clear, 

Deep  shaded  dells  with  thickest  verdure  clad. 

While  ever  and  anon  the  sportive  deer 

Betrays  his  presence  by  his  antics  glad. 

Along  the  pleasant  sylvan  paths  there  lie 

Fair  gardens  blossoming  in  the  delight 

Of  sun  and  de\v,  until  the  charmed  eye 

Is  wean-  with  excess  of  colors  bright. 

And  further  on  the  hills  begin  to  rise, 

Covered  with  forests  to  the  summit  steep. 

Here  lurk  the  Dryads,  who  with  curious  eyes 

Peep  at  us  as  we  pass  through  shadows  deep. 

So  pressing  on  into  the  ancient  wood, 
We  come  at  last  into  an  open  glade 
50 


Nestled  among  the  mountains  which  have  stood 
Guarding  this  woodland  vale  since  time  was  made. 
Across  the  level  sweeps  of  cooling  lawn 
Flowers  run  riot,  and  the  pebbly  rills 
Murmur  their  sweetest  music,  which  has  gone 
Into  our  hearts,  and  every  longing  stills. 
Midmost  within  this  happy  vale  serene, 
Surrounded  by  lithe  vines  and  thorn  trees  bare, 
Which  intertwining,  form  a  living  screen, 
Rises  a  bower  more  than  earthly  fair. 
And  round  about  the  lovely  bower,  a  band 
Of  maiden  Nymphs,  each  one  of  beauty  rare, 
Sing  and  make  merry,  dancing  hand  in  hand., 
Their  joyous  music  filling  all  the  air. 

Oh,  now  indeed,  we  know  where  thou  hast  led 
Our  feet,   fair  goddess  of  the  silver  face! 
These  be  thy  Nymphs  before  whom  Actaeon  fled, 
Thy  comrades  in  the  pleasures  of  the  chase. 
Here  ever  faithful  watch  and  ward  they  keep, 
Forever  closing  in  their  magic  ring 
Round  thy  Endymion  in  his  deathless  sleep ; 
And,  watching  ever,  clear  and  sweet  they  sing. 

O  goddess  of  the  chase, 
Give  us  thy  presence  fair, 
Oh  teach  us  yet  to  trace 
The  wild  beast  to  his  lair. 

Ever  thy  silver  bow 
Hath  been  our  strong  ally. 
Forsake  us  then  not  thou. 
Still  for  thy  help  we  cry. 

Here   in   this  peaceful   vale 
Thy  watch  and  ward  we  keep 
Over  thy  lover  pale, 
Deep  in  his  dreamful  sleep. 
51 


Lead  us,  O  queen  of  night, 
Rushing  across  the  plain, 
To  follow  in  wild  flight 
Thy  crescent  once  again. 

Only  to  hear  thy  bow 
Twang  as  we  heard  of  old, 
Thy    voice    so    sweet    and    low 
Giving  its  orders  bold. 

Only  to  hear  thy  horn 
Waking  the  echoes  far — 

At  this  is  heard  a  note  with  liquid  roll 
So  sweet  and  yearning  that  it  penetrates 
Down  to  the  shivering  caverns  of  the  soul, 
Whence  echoing,  at  once  it  recreates 
And  brings  to  life  all  those  desires  intense 
Which  from  of  old  have  held  us  in  their  grasp, 
And    throbs   and   thrills   and    aches   through    even- 
sense, 

Holding  our  spirits  in  its  tender  clasp; 
Sobbing  and  wailing  in  its  wistful  sweetness 
Until  our  very  heartstrings  give  a  cry, 
Strained  past  endurance  in  their  incompleteness, 
Not  yet  attuned  to  heaven's  harmony. 

And  now  athwart  the  blue  empyrean, 
Gliding  as  straight  as  light,  swift  as  a  dove, 
Cometh  a  vision  which  may  ne'er  again 
Be  seen  by  any  eyes  save  those  above. 
For  radiant  in  celestial  glory, 
Behold,  fair  Dian,  than  a  fawn  more  fleet, 
Not  chaste  and  cold  as  in  the  olden  story, 
But  blushing  rosy  red,  divinely  sweet. 
For  she  has  come,  smit  by  the  pain  divine, 
To  seek  her  lover,  young  Endymion, 
52 


And  pour  along  his  veins  such  fiery  wine 
Would  wake  to  life  a  block  of  wood  or  stone. 

But  ere  she  entereth  into  her  bliss 

Each    Nymph   with    gracious    kindness   she   would 

greet, 

Approaching  first  now  that  one  and  now  this, 
Blessing  the  herbage  with  her  tender  feet. 
At  last  into  the  inmost  bower  she's  gone, 
Which  straightway  glows  with  roselight  pale  and 

clear, 

All  sleep  has  from  those  heavy  eyelids  flown, 
Enraptured  he  beholds  his  goddess  near. 
And  now  come  gently  murmured  words  of  love, 
Tender  complainings  such  as  lovers  use, 
Heart  pressed  to  heart  in  wildest,  throbbings  move, 
While  lips  from  nectar'd  lips  sip  sweetest  dews. 

Too  soon,  alas !  the  winged  hours  have  flown 
And  Cynthia  must  back  into  the  sky. 
Else  would  all  Nature  cry  and  make  great  moan 
Could  she  not  see  her  goddess  clear  and  high. 
For  dearer  to  the  night  that  face  so  pure 
Than  to  parched  crops  the  gently  falling  rain, 
So  must  the  loving  goddess  now  immure 
The  hapless  youth  within  his  dreams  again. 
This  done,  out  of  that  blissful  vale  she  swept, 
Which    straightway   gloomed,    losing   her   presence 

bright. 

And  we  who  far  and  far  have  overstepped 
The  bounds  of  earthly  life,  led  by  the  light 
Of  sweetest  Dian,  never  shall  believe 
Those  tales  that  call  her  the  pale  chilly  moon. 
Such  words  can  never  more  our  minds  deceive, 
For  we  have  seen  her  with  Endymion. 


53 


TO  A  RED  SUNSET 

O  great  Apollo,  what  beauties  follow 

Thy  roseate  car  at  dawn ! 

But  better  than  those  are  the  gold  and  rose 

Thou  bringest  when  day  is  gone. 

When  the  stars  peep  out  and  complete  thy  rout 

As  thou  sinkest  in  the  west, 

And  thy  streamers  red,  flung  far  overhead, 

Herald  thy  coming  rest. 

To  mortal  vision  the  gates  Elysinn 

Seem  opened  for  a  time, 

And  from  the  towers  and  airy  bowers 

Familiar  in  legend  and  rhyme, 

There  comes  a  blessing  beyond  all  guessing 

To  those  of  us  who  know 

That  our  mortal  eyes  see  the  smile  that  flies 

From  the  gods  to  earth  below. 

Still  the  splendor  falls  on  the  eye  and  enthralls 

Our  hearts  with  the  vision  bright; 

The  glowing  hues  interweave  and  suffuse 

The  heavens  with  golden  light, 

Till  all  must  adore,  and  the  sun-god  implore 

That  in  some  future  clime 

Our  spirits  may  float  to  that  region  remote, 

And  bathe  in  that  flood  sublime. 

Now  the  afterglow  and  the  shadows  show 

That  the  god  of  day  has  fled. 

The  colors  fade  into  many  a  shade 

Of  purple,  saffron  and  red, 

While  the  clouds  so  gay  become  cold  and  gray 

As  the  twilight  waxes  old, 

And  the  fires  so  bright  burn  dim  in  our  sight, 

And  turn  to  ashes  cold. 

54 


In  the  near-by  trees,  with  never  a  breeze, 

There  comes  a  rustling  deep, 

'Tis  the  birds  o'erhead  in  their  airy  bed 

Settling  themselves  to  sleep. 

As  the  daylight  dies  and  the  gem-like  eyes 

Of  the  twinkling  stars  appear, 

The  vision  departs  and  leaves  in  our  hearts 

Only  a  memory  dear. 


55 


THE  SIRENS 

Out  across  the  sunny  reaches 
Of  the  sparkling  sapphire  sea, 
There,  along  the  golden  beaches, 
Beautiful  entrancingly, 

Fairest  sea-maidens  repeating 
Sunshine's  glints  in  lustrous  hair, 
Stretch  out  lovely  arms  entreating 
Us  to  come  and  join  them  there. 

Then  those  pleading  accents  tremble 
Into  harmony  divine ; 
Sweeter  voice  may  ne'er  dissemble 
Love  that  ever  doth  repine. 

Still  those  notes  from  sweet  lips  falling 
Promise  happiness  to  be, 
Calling,  calling,  ever  calling 
To  those  isles  amid  the  sea. 


WHEN  BACCHUS  CAME 

The  world  was  new  and  all  the  gods 
Were  mad  with  youth  and  love, 
And  Titans  trembled  at  the  nods 
Of  heaven-defying  Jove. 
Then  were  the  halcyon  days  of  old 
Of  which  the  ancient  poets  told. 

Then  Dryads  swarmed  in  every  grove. 

Then  every  crystal  pool, 

Whose  whispering  reeds  and  rushes  wove 

A  bower  fresh  and  cool, 

Showed  far  beneath  its  mirrored  face 

Some  shimmering  Naiad's  dwelling  place. 

In  meads  where  nodding  flowers  move, 

The  murmurous  bees  intone 

The  drowsy  litany  of  love, 

More  dulcet  than  their  own 

Most  fragrant  treasure,  when  it  swells 

The  waxen  semilucent  cells. 

The  flowering  almond's  avalanche 

Of  blossoms  pink  and  white 

Sends  many  a  downward  curving  branch 

O'er  hidden  bowers  bright, 

Wherefrom,  with  innate  coquetry, 

Blithe  Nymphs  set  fluttering  glances  free. 

And  round  about,  the  jocund  sound 
Of  piping  and  of  song 
Comes  from  each  velvet-swarded  mound 
Where  Nymphs  and  Satyrs  throng. 
While  twining  arms  and  twinkling  feet, 
And  willowy  forms  make  grace  complete. 


57 


Far  in  a  vale,  where  tumbled   hills 

Skirt  the  Boeotian  plain, 

The  last  outlying  sentinels 

Of  great  Parnassus'  train, 

Behold,  a  vision  of  delight! 

A  maid  in  spring-time  jewels  dight. 

On   dewy   rose  and   violet 

Lies  Semele  the  fair, 

While  rosemary  and  mignonette 

Enwreathe  her  wondrous  hair. 

The  first  is  for  remembrance  meet, 

The  second  makes  remembrance  sweet. 

In  alternating  white  and  red, 
Flushing  at  every  sound, 
She  waits  with  joy  akin  to  dread, 
A  queen  with  blushes  crowned. 
Well  may  high  Jove  enchanted  be 
Devotion  such  as  hers  to  see. 

But  hark,  a  step!     Now  fluttering  heart 

Lie  quiet  in  thy  nest, 

Else  must  thy  throbbing  impulse  start 

Soft  tumult  in  that  breast, 

Whose  tender  billowings  would  betray 

The  love  that  sweeps  her  soul  away. 

Nay  gentle  maid,  with  downcast  eyes 

Fixed  on  the  flowery  earth, 

This  is  not  he  whose  ardent  sighs 

Give  to  thy  love  new  birth. 

The  languorous  air  doth  not  enfold 

Thy  god-like  wooer  uncontrolled. 

Fair  as  a  dream  before  her  stands 
A  being  all  divine, 

58 


Whose  gracious  smiles,  like  silken  bands, 
About  the  heart  entwine. 
Thus  jealous  Hera  craftily 
Approaches  youthful  Semele 

"Bright  jewel  of  the  Cadmean  race, 

Happy  art  thou  above 

All  others,  since  thy  lissome  grace 

Hath  lured  e'en  mighty  Jove 

To  seek  thy  blissful  earthly  bower: 

Although  compact  of  god-like  power. 

Nay,  blush  not  thus  because  I  know 

Thy  secret  sweet  and  dear. 

With  friendship  true  this  heart  doth  glow. 

Disarm  thee  of  thy  fear. 

Secure  and  peaceful  mayst  thou  rest: 

Thy  tale  is  buried  in  my  breast." 

Then  with  alluring  blandishment 

And  favoring  glances  kind, 

She  moved  to  where  in  wonderment 

The  blushing  maid  reclined, 

And  sinking  to  apparent  rest, 

She  drew  the  maiden  to  her  breast. 

And  twined  the  massive  coils  of  hair 
About  her  soothing  hand, 
And  murmured  tender  words  and  fair 
In  accents  sweet  and  bland; 
Until  the  doubting  maid,  at  last, 
Her  fear  to  all  the  winds  has  cast. 

"But  know,  O  Semele",  she  said, 
"The  keenest  joy  of  all 
As  yet  hath  never  visited 
Thy  heart.     May  it  befall 
59 


That  soon  thy  wondering  eyes  shall  see 
Thy  loved  one  in  his  majesty. 

Past  mortal  thought  his  grandeur  shines 

O'erpanoplied  with  cloud, 

The  lightnings  round   his  arm   he   twines, 

While  bursting  thunder  loud, 

Like  echoes  from  vast  heavenly  drums, 

Reverberating  downward  comes. 

Well  do   I   know  thy  lover  bright: 

His  modesty's  a  jest 

Among  the  gods.     Demand  the  sight, 

He  shall  deny  thy  quest. 

By  subtlety  shalt  thou  attain 

To  that  whereof  thy  heart  were  fain. 

Ask  thou  thy  boon :  then  as  he  stands 

Before  thee,   let  him  swear 

To  grant  whate'er  thy  love  demands 

Ere  thou  thy  wish  declare. 

And  bid  him  swear,  his  faith  to  fix, 

By  ebon  waters  of  the  Styx. 

Now  lovely  Cadmean,  adieu. 

Forget  not  what  I've  told 

For  thine  own  good,   in  friendship  true; 

And  may  thy  heart  be  bold 

To  seek  that  which  is  thine  by  right, 

Thy  lover  at  his  glory's  height." 

Unclasping  her  enfolding  arms, 
She  leaves  the  maid  at  rest, 
While  new  desires  and  vague  alarms 
Disturb  that  peaceful  breast. 
Then  fades  adown  the  flowery  vale 
Like  drifting  wreath  of  vapor  frail. 
60 


Upon  her  couch  where  roses  glow 

And  daffodillies  fine 

Invert  their  cups,  with  overflow 

Of  all  their  dewy  wine, 

The  pensive  maiden  musing  lies, 

With  brooding,  thought-o'ershadowed  eyes. 

Far  in  the  upper  realms  of  light 

A  piercing  scream  is  heard: 

In  palpitating,  headlong  flight 

Descends  Jove's  royal  bird. 

Full  well  the  blithesome  maiden  knew 

This  herald  from  her  lover  true. 

With  pinions  set,  he  sails  adown 

The  trackless  paths  of  air, 

And  at  her  feet  is  gently  thrown 

A  token  sweet  and  fair, 

The  flower  that  first  saw  light  of  day 

Where  dying  Hyacinthus  lay. 

Then  with  a  cry  of  hoarse  disdain 
For  all  save  power  and  might, 
Tremendous  throbbing  wings  again 
Bear  him  from  mortal  sight. 
More  fierce  a  messenger  may  ne'er 
The  tender  thought  of  lover  bear. 

Full  oft  she's  seen  that  cruel  face 

With  golden  eyes  of  doom, 

Those  talons  from  whose  fell  embrace 

No  living  thing  may  come. 

Yet  howsoever  oft  he's  sent, 

Chill  fear  is  with  her  raptures  blent. 

Now  stooping  where  the  flower  lies, 
Within  the  blissful  nest 

61 


Of  her  soft  bosom's  fall  and  rise 
She  cradles  it  to  rest; 
And  with  its  balmy  breath  inspires 
Renewal  of  her  love-lit  fires. 

While  thus  in  musings  sweet  she  stood, 

Her  eyes  with  love  aflame, 

From  out  a  grove  of  ilex  wood 

Her  royal  lover  came. 

With   outstretched   arms  and   flying   feet 

He   speeds   the   blushing   maid    to   meet. 

The  first  ecstatic  greeting  done, 

With  beaming  eyes  she  said, 

"My  lord   of  love,   I  crave  a  boon, 

Wilt  grant  it  to  thy  maid?" 

"Tis  thine  before  the  thought,"  said  he, 

"What  gift  shall  I  not  bring  to  thee?" 

"Nay,  not  so  fast,  my  lover  bold, 

Deem  of  thy  maid  no  ill, 

But  first,  before  my  will  I've  told, 

My  longing  to  fulfil, 

I  pray  thee  swear  to  grant  me  this 

By  what  to  thee  most  sacred  is." 

Then  o'er  his  smiling  face  a  shade 
Of  doubt  and  anger  came: 
As  when  a  cloud  o'er  sunny  glade 
Makes  dim  the  roses'  flame; 
But  as  the  sun  shines  out  again, 
His  smiles  returned  and  he  began. 

"By  that  dread  stream  of  nether  hell 
Whose  sable  waters  run 
Past  gloomy  fields  of  asphodel 
In  twilight  shadows  dun, 
62 


I  swear  to  do  thy  very  will: 
Thine  utmost  longing  to  fulfil. 

Now  little  disbeliever,  art 

Thou  not  content  that  I 

Have  done  my  meek  subservient  part, 

Who  else  am  stern  and  high, 

And  yield  not  lightly  to  command? 

See,  here  thy  servant  now  I  stand." 

With  eyes  whose  languorous  content 

Promise  a  full  reward, 

In  utter  self-abandonment 

She  flees  to  him,  her  lord. 

Be  sure  his  eager  lips  shall  meet 

Her  dewy  lips  all  cool  and  sweet. 

"Fair  Semele,  now  say  thy  say, 

Behold  thy  servant  stands 

In  burning  ardor  to  obey 

His  dearest  love's  commands. 

What  is  it  thou  wouldst  have  me  bring? 

'Tis  thine  ere  swiftest  bird  might  wing 

His  way  across  the  little  space 
Between  my  heart  and  thine. 
What  is  there  of  my  utmost  grace 
That  should  not  equal  shine 
On  thee  within  thy  flowery  nest, 
And  me,  who  am  thy  lover  blest?" 

"O  lord  of  love,  thy  task  is  light; 
Thou  needest  not  to  bring 
Thy  sandaled  messenger,  whose  flight 
Outruns  the  tempest's  wing. 
As  Jove  the  thunder-bearer,  I 
Would  see  thee  pass  in  majesty." 
63 


Then  for  a  time  amazed  he  stood, 
While  in  his  visage  drear 
Surprise  and  consternation  showed 
Her  danger  great  and  near. 
Her  innocence  and  ignorance 
Have  put  him  in  this  sudden  trance. 

"Light  of  my  eyes,  thou  knowest  not 

The  task  thou'st  set  for  me. 

Celestial  laws  bind  me  about, 

In  this  I  am  not  free. 

No  living  mortal  e'er  may  view 

That  sight,  but  bids  the  world  adieu. 

But  since  I've  sworn  that  fatal  oath 

Naught  can  absolve  me  now 

From  strict  obedience,  how  loath 

Soe'er  to  scorch  thy  brow. 

So   pray   thee  grant  me   heart   of   grace, 

And  take  some  other  wish  in  place." 

"But  nay,  but  nay,  my  lover  high, 

So  great  a  god  as  thou 

Must  know  some  secret  means  whereby 

Mayst  ward  the  fatal  blow, 

And  let  me  see  thee  stern  and  grand, 

And  yet  remain  within  thy  land." 

"Rash    maid,    thou    wringst    my    heart    with    fear 

Oh  change  this  foolish  whim. 

I'll  show  thee  where  the  elfins  leer. 

I'll  guide  thee  through  the  dim 

Vast  spaces  of  the  realms  below, 

Where  even  celestials  may  not  go. 

Within  their  gloomy  caves  thou'lt  see 
The  monstrous  fiends  of  hell. 
64 


I'll  wander  hand  in  hand  with  thee 
Through  fields  of  asphodel. 
We'll  see  the  fair,  sad  queen  of  pain, 
Rapt  from  the  flowers  on  Enna's  plain. 

I'll  lead  thee  o'er  the  ocean's  foam, 
And  through  the  western  seas 
Where  lies  the  happy  island  home 
Of  the  Hesperides. 
Within  their  wondrous  gardens  grew 
The  golden  apple  Eris  threw. 

Then,   winging  northward,   we  shall   see 

Where  wintry  whirlwinds  blow, 

And  fill  the  drear  immensity 

With  drifting  worlds  of  snow; 

In  lambent  flushes  o'er  the  skies 

The  pulsating  aurora  flies. 

Here  broods  the  everlasting  night. 

Here  Zephyr  never  brings 

His  flowery  season  of  delight. 

Here  never  song-bird  sings, 

But  shivering  in  the  frozen  air, 

In  ambush  lurks  the  monstrous  bear. 

Along  the  wind-swept  icy  shore, 

Where  all  things  else  congeal, 

Is  heard  the  far  off  barking  roar 

Of  walrus  and  of  seal: 

While  on  the  deep,  leviathan 

Heaves  his  huge  bulk  through  summers  wan. 

We  two  will  go  where  Saturn's  rings 
Whirl  round  his  heart  of  flame, 
And  where  the  blazing  comet  flings 
Through  space  beyond  a  name: 
65 


And  where  Polaris  swings  in  air 
His  playmates  of  the  little  Bear. 

Where  shooting  stars  like  torches  glow, 

And  Dog-star  fell  doth  shine: 

Where   baleful  planets  earthward   throw 

Their    influence    malign, 

And  star-dust  swarms  like  fiery  bees 

Among  the  maiden  Pleiades. 

We'll  go  where  fire,  erupted,  runs 
From  burning  star  to  star; 
Where  gyrating  and  seething  suns 
Throw  molten  worlds  afar; 
Where  fierce  Arcturus  leads  the  van, 
And  mocks  at  slow  Aldebaran. 

But  terror  reigns  not  here  alone, 

For  Lyra's  throbbing  strong 

Gives  out  a  grand  sweet  undertone 

Amid  a  heaven  of  song; 

And  thus  shall  strike  thy  ravished  ears 

The  music  of  the  heavenly  spheres. 

Then  plunging  through  the  ocean's  swell, 

Beneath  the  solid  land, 

We'll  see  the  sapphire  caves  where  dwell 

The  lovely  Nereid  band, 

And  dolphins  undulating  through 

The  twilight  floods  of  deepest  blue. 

Though  storms  above  our  path  may  rage, 
We'll  wander,  you  and   I 
Through  groves  of  wondrous  foliage 
Unwonted  to  the  eye; 
While  brilliant  sea-born  creatures  swim 
Along  the  fronded  vistas  dim. 
66 


We'll  seek  the  swells  where  Tritons  blow 

Their  hollow  far-heard  horns 

In  gentle  cadence,  soft  and  low, 

On  sunny  summer  morns; 

And  see  Poseidon  sweep  along 

Behind  sea-horses  fierce  and  strong. 

Men  shall  be  swept  to  war  for  thee. 

Shalt  hear  their  stirring  cries 

In  battle  both  on  land  and  sea; 

And  deeds  of  high  emprise 

Shall  make  thy  fame  more  fresh  and  green 

Than  Helena's,  the  Argive  queen. 

Wealth  shall  be  thine  beyond  desire, 
And  gems  of  every  hue. 
The  diamond  with  its  eye  of  fire 
Is  thine,  and  sapphire  blue. 
Resplendent  then  thy  form  shall  shine 
As  Iris  with  her  bow  divine. 

And  when  thy  days  on  earth  are  o'er 

Thy  gentle  sprite  I'll  bring 

To  that  far  happy  western  shore 

Where  reigns  eternal  spring, 

And  brightest  sunshine  ever  smiles 

Above  the  blest  Elysian  isles. 

And  thou  shalt  ever  hold  my  love, 

For  thee  this  bosom  glows. 

The  maid  beneath  the  shield  of  Jove 

Is  safe  from  fortune's  blows. 

O  maiden  mine,  my  heart  is  sore; 

Give  me  my  happiness  once  more!" 

He  ceased,  and  sombre  eyes  of  dread 
Plead  strongly  for  recall 
67 


Of  that  rash  wish  by  which  the  maid 
Held  him  within  her  thrall. 
But  yet  she  deemed  that  he  might  still 
In  harmless  wise  her  wish  fulfil. 

"And  art  thou  he,  my  lover  fond? 

Thou  makst  a  jest  of  love. 

Can  there  be  aught  that  lies  beyond 

The  power  of  might  Jove? 

Shall  I,  thy  handmaid,  never  see 

Thine  all-compelling  majesty?" 

"Though  puissant  in  things  that  deal 

With    nature,   laws  obtain 

Which  bind  the  gods  in  gyves  of  steel. 

We  have  encountered  twain. 

An  oath   sworn   by  that  ebon   flood 

Must  be  fulfilled  by  every  god. 

Stern  Fate  another  law  has  made. 

That  mortal  sure  must  die 

Who  sees  me  passing,  when  arrayed 

In   thunder's  panoply. 

By  all  the  love  I  bear  thee  now, 

Absolve  me  from  that  foolish  vow." 

But  still  the  words  that  Hera  spoke 

Were  ringing  in  her  ear: 

And  still  she  deemed  he  would  revoke 

His  stern  decision  clear 

Could  she  but  make  him  understand 

How  his  resistence  only  fanned 

The  flame  of  her  desire  to  see 
That  sight,  come  good  or  ill; 
And  spite  of  her  mortality, 
To  bend  him  to  her  will. 

68 


So  hardens  now  her  heart  again, 

And  makes  his  dearest  pleadings  vain. 

"Dear  lover  mine,  this  breast  abounds 

In  full  affection  free, 

And  every  heartbeat  only  sounds 

A  throbbing  call  for  thee; 

But  this  desire  scorns  all  control, 

'Tis  longing  of  my  inmost  soul." 

"Fair    maid,    thou    dost    not    heed    my    words. 

I  tell  thee  I  am  bound. 

Like  keenest  double-edged  swords 

Thine  accents  pierce  and  wound 

A  heart  made  languorous  by  love 

For  thee,  whom  prayers  will  never  move. 

Lo,  here  I  make  my  last  appeal. 

Helpless  indeed  am  I. 

If  in  thy  bosom  thou  dost  feel 

The  love  thine  acts  deny, 

Yea,  by  the  love  thou  bearest  me, 

Oh,  set  me  from  this  promise  free." 

But  Hera's  subtle  words  had  brought 

Their  deadly  mischief  now. 

With  eyes  cast  down  as  if  in  thought, 

Serene  and  placid  brow, 

"Fair  lord,  thou  knowest  my  desire, 

Its  due  fulfilment  I  require." 

Then  o'er  his  face  displeasure's  veil 
Came  like  a  funeral  pall. 
"Thou  stubborn  maid,  will  naught  avail? 
On  thee  the  bolt  must  fall. 
But  sad  and  lone  this  heart  will  be, 
O  foolish,  lovely  Semele." 
69 


With  look  foreshadowing  her  doom, 

He  turns  his  face  away 

From  that  fair  wilful  maiden  whom 

The  gods  perverse  still  sway. 

Then  as  a  meteor  in  the  night 

Is  quenched,  he  vanishes  from  sight. 

Alarm  hath  seized  the  trembling  maid 

At  his  abrupt  farewell 

Who  erst  his  partings  long  delayed, 

In   burning  words  to  tell 

How  her  mere  presence  filled  his  soul 

With  ecstasy  beyond  control. 

Then  mindful  of  his  parting  words 

And  ominous  despair, 

Her  fears,  like  trenchant  flaming  swords, 

Pierce  through  that  bosom  fair. 

With    timid   apprehensive   eye 

She  scans  the  clear  translucent  sky. 

Then  casts  a  timorous  look  around 

Upon  the  wide  expanse, 

But  naught  in  that  fair  scene  is  found 

Her  terrors  to  enhance. 

O'er  all  the  smiling  grassy  vale 

Deep  peace  and  quietude  prevail. 

With  mounting  courage  she  returns 

Into  the  flowery  maze 

Where  every  flaming  blossom  burns 

Sweet  incense  in  her  praise, 

And  tuneful  birds  the  branches  throng 

To  charm  her  with  their  matin  song. 

Enshrined  like  pearl  in  rosy  shell, 
To  tender  visions  given 

70 


Of  him  to  whom  her  bosom's  swell 
Brings  rapture  beyond  heaven, 
She  still  believes  his  ardent  fire 
Will  grant  her  inmost  heart's  desire. 

Within  a  near-by  grove  she  sees 

A  wreath  of  vapor  rise: 

It  wavers  in   the  gentle  breeze 

Soft  as  a  maiden's  sighs, 

As  frail  and  wraith-like  doth  it  seem 

As  fabric  of  a  fleeting  dream. 

Again  are  heard  those  raucous  cries, 
And  through  the  crystal  heaven 
That  herald  fierce  his  passage  plies, 
On  stormy  pinions  driven. 
Wild  joy  within  her  bosom  swells. 
Jove's  swift  arrival  he  foretells. 

Her  lover's  custom  had  been  such 
That  on  each  happy  day, 
Forerunner  of  his  near  approach, 
Some  token  bright  and  gay 
Was  dropped  before  her  snowy  feet, 
Twin  lilies  meshed  in  grasses  sweet. 

But,   stooping   from    the   heavens   down, 

Still  nearer  and  more  near, 

On  that  fair  head  he  drops  a  crown 

Of  cypress  branches  drear. 

Alarmed,  bewildered  now,  the  maid 

Sinks  to  the  earth  all  sore  dismayed. 

Then  as  her  wandering  glances  range 
From  place  to  place,  she  sees 
A  strange  and  mystifying  change 
Among  the  shivering  trees. 
71 


The  tiny  wisp   of  vapor  blue 

Has  spread  and  shows  a  darker  hue. 

With  eyes  as  of  a  frightened  child 

She  sees  it  growing  still, 

And  now  it  turns  and  writhes,   as  wild 

As  thunder-clouds  that  fill 

The  wide  horizon  with  the  storm 

On  summer  evenings  close  and  warm. 

But  see!  that  threatening  form  dilates. 

More  broad  it  seems,  and  higher. 

Its  dusky  surface  scintillates 

With  tiny  sparks  of  fire; 

Like  summer  marshes  seen  o'  nights 

Twinkling  with  myriad  fire-fly  lights. 

And  now  there  comes  a  heavy  moan 

Like  thunder's  rumbling  jar, 

And  rushing  sounds  that  speak  alone 

Of  tempests  heard  afar. 

Some   force   resistless   writhes   and    rends 

Within   that  cloud,   and   death   portends. 

In  terror  wild  the  maiden  turns, 

But  scarce  three  steps  away 

When   through   the   ebon   cloud   there   burns 

A  blue  and  crackling  ray. 

Alas,  alas,   for  Semele! 

She's  seen  Jove's  awful  majesty. 

Then  with  a  blinding  glare,  and  wail 
Of  wind,  the  tempest  leaps 
O'er  all  the  place.     Across  the  vale 
The  swirling  blackness  sweeps. 
And   lurid   flames  in  wrath   devour 
The   hapless   maiden's   secret   bower. 
72 


Never  on  any  land  that  lies 
Beneath  the  shining  sun, 
Or  any  sea  whose  waters  rise 
Xo  greet  the  alluring  moon, 
Shall  wistful  mortal  vision  see 
The  martyred  maiden,  Semele. 


Sweet  winds  came  rushing  down  the  vale 
And  swept  the  clouds  away, 
Revealing  Jove  distraught  and  pale, 
With  features  drawn  and  gray; 
For  Sorrow  deep  within  his  heart 
Had  planted  her  corroding  dart. 

With  fathomless  sad  eyes  of  ruth 
For  her  thus  blindly  driven 
By  innocence  and  wilful  youth 
Athwart  the  laws  of  heaven, 
He  gazed  around  as  if  to  find 
Some  token  memory-enshrined. 

Upon  the  blackened  fire-scarred  ground 

A  lovely  infant  shows 

His    death-still    form,    which    that    discrowned 

And  slaughtered  mother's  throes 

Had  left  to  mighty  Jove  to  prove 

How  ardent  was  her  tender  love. 

Then  through  his  heart  swept  such  a  pang 
As  only  gods  can  feel. 
Again  within  his  senses  rang 
Her  piteous  appeal. 
Since  then  all  bards  commandeth  he 
To  sing  her  immortality. 
73 


Then  swiftly  to  the  infant  goes 

And  breathes  celestial  breath 

Into  his  lips,  and  overthrows 

The  greedy  pallid  Death. 

The  infant  moves  and  gasps  and  smiles, 

And  soon  his  father's  heart  beguiles. 

Now  Jove  calls  Hermes  to  his  side, 

And  bids  nor  rest  nor  stay 

Till  he  in  Nysa's  valleys  wide 

The  smiling  child  might  lay; 

And  bid  the  Nymphs  and  Naiads  there 

Give  him  their  loving  watchful  care. 

Thus  through  pale  death  and  terrors   grim, 

And  anguished  throes  of  fear, 

The  infant  came  into  the  dim 

Sad  world  about  us  here. 

The  son  of  Jove,  a  god  was  he, 

But  mortal-framed  like  Semele. 

Of  all  the  names  about  the  earth 
By  Fame's  clear  trumpet  blown, 
Of  mortal  or  of  heavenly  birth, 
Is  none  more  widely  known, 
Even  to  the  farthest  western  sea, 
Than  BACCHUS,  son  of  Semele. 


74 


REVERY 

When  earth  lies  dead  beneath  the  wintry  sky, 

And  sparkling  stars  gleam  icily  on  high, 

And  alabaster  paths,  bediamonded, 

Shriek   loudly    'neath   the  passer's   hurrying   tread, 

And  restless  horses  breathe  twin  jets  of  steam 

That  turn  to  silver  in  the  moon's  cold  beam, 

And  frozen  stillness,  with  her  pinions  furled, 

Broods  o'er  the  silent  gem-encrusted  world, 

I  sit  within  the  glowing  ingle  nook 

With  pipe  and  some  beloved  poet's  book: 

And  as  the  gray  wood  blossoms  into  flame, 

My  mind  turns  backward,  and  old  pictures  frame 

Themselves  anew  before  my  dreamy  eyes. 

Again  I  see  New  England  hillsides  rise. 

Before  me  slopes  the  lichened  granite  ledge 

With  huckleberries  all  about  the  edge: 

And  shyly  peering  from  their  leafy  screen, 

The  scarlet  globes  of  shining  wintergreen. 

Again  my  eager  nostrils  can  discern 

The  spicy  fragrance  of  the  rare  sweet  fern. 

With  quick  contraction  of  the  heart  I  feel 

The  clasp  of  tiny  fingers,  which  would  steal 

Into  my  own,  and  sweet  adoring  eyes 

Upraised   to  mine,   with   childhood's  wisdom  wise, 

And  sunny  curls,   ah,   gentle  little  maid! 

With  whom  through  all  my  childish  hours  I  played, 

The  winter's  snow  and  summer's  blossoms  spread 

Their  amaranthine  white  and  gold  and  red 

Above  thy  quiet  bosom,  buried   deep 

These  many  years,  in  the  long  dreamless  sleep. 

Beyond  our  knowledge  is  the  reason  why 
This  one  is  spared,  while  that  one's  stricken  cry 
Peals  to  the  shivering  stars.    The  power  above 
(Whose  very  name  and  nature  must  be  love,) 
75 


Which  moulds  our  plastic  being  day  by  day, 
As  hand  of  potter  moulds  the  facile  clay, 
Like  that  same  potter  treats  the  fragile  ware. 
This  lovely  vase,  of  graceful  form  and  fair, 
Is  dashed  as  soon  as  made.     That  other  one, 
(No  fairer  to  our  seeing,)   has  begun 
A  life  of  wide-spread  usefulness,  and  high 
Sweet  service  to  mankind,  but  why,  oh  why? 

Far  in   the  shadowy  woodlands  we   explored, 

And  found  the  canny  squirrel's  wintry  hoard. 

And  eagerly  we  seized   the  sudden  prize 

Of  nuts,   and   rushed   away  with   joyful   cries. 

But  suddenly  the  maiden  sees  the  pain 

And  sorrow  of  the  squirrel,  who  in  vain 

Has  labored  weary  hours  'gainst  winter's  need. 

Then  with  eyes  dropping  purest  pearls,  she'd  plead 

Against  my  rougher  boyish  mood,  till  I 

Felt  sorry  too,  and  forthwith  back  we'd  hie, 

Retracing  all  our  steps  through  meadows  sweet 

With  thyme  and  marjoram  about  our  feet; 

And  when  we  reached  the  winding  shady  lane. 

The  squirrel's  granary  was  filled  again. 

Or  else  about  the  old  farmhouse  we'd  play, 
And  watch  the  tall  and  slender  well-sweep  sway 
In  summer  winds,  and  rattle  in  the  gale. 
And  when  some  elder  came  with  empty  pail, 
'Twould  make  a  stately  bow,  precise  and  prim, 
Down  even  to  the  well-curb's  echoing  brim. 
Never  were  we  too  busy  at  our  play 
To  take  refreshment  from  the  bucket  gray. 
Ah,  well  I  mind  the  long  delicious  sips 
Of  sparkling  water  from  its  velvet  lips. 

Anon  we'd  seek  the  ancient  cider  mill, 
Where  in  its  darkling  shadows  lingered  still 
76 


Grim  dragons,  high  above  or  underneath, 

So  that  we  crept  about  with  bated  breath. 

But  when  the  autumn  came,  in  his  slow  round 

The  patient  horse  the  odorous  apples  ground. 

Then  she  and  I  with  tiny  cup  in  hand 

Sought  out  the  wooden  spout  whence  flowed   the 

bland 

Sweet  life-blood  of  the  fruit.  With  vessels  filled, 
We'd  creep  to  where,  with  cautious  fingers  skilled, 
We  found  sweet  home-made  cakes  of  rapturous 

smell, 

In  the  deep  earthen  jar  we  knew  so  well. 
Then  underneath  the  ever-whispering  trees, 
Surrounded  by  the  golden-banded  bees, 
What  wild  and  joyous  banqueting  was  ours 
Among  the  shade  and  sunshine  and  the  flowers! 

Now  to  the  child-alluring  pond  we've  flown, 

Where  all  the  marshy  borders  are  bestrewn 

With  velvet  cat-tails,  and  the  iris  blue 

In  fascinating  clumps  of  color  grew. 

Here  sweet  winds  waft  our  laden  ships  to  sea, 

Seeking  great  store  of  gold  and  ivory 

In  far,  dim-visioned,  glorious  foreign  lands, 

And  isles  of  spice  begirt  with  coral  strands: 

Till  from  the  grasp  of  Fancy's  visions  deep, 

We're  startled  by  the  frog's  portentous  leap. 

Far  down  the  sunny  field,  along  the  wall 

Where  whistling  thrush  and  strident  cat-bird  call, 

We  watch  with  curious  eyes  the  antics  queer 

Of  a  small  family  of  woodchucks  near: 

Till  some  quick  motion  frights  them  to  their  lair, 

When  presto!  all  we  see  is  empty  air. 

Alas!  like  marmots  in  their  vanishing, 
My  childhood's  dreams  unto  themselves  take  wing. 
For  now  the  fire  is  burning  low  at  last, 
77 


And  all  my  memories  of  the  golden  past, 
Fade  with  the  fading  flames,  and  die  away 
Along  with  them  into  cold  ashes  gray. 

Sweet,  tiny  maiden,  in  thy  narrow  bed 
Beneath  the  beechen  boughs,  and  garlanded 
With  trailing  vines,  and  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Kept  bright  and  fresh  by  heaven's  impearling  dew, 
I  know  not  if  that  power  which  rules  us  all 
Were  not  more  kind  to  thee.     The  stony  wall 
Of  custom  hems  us  in  on  every  side; 
Surrounded,  we,   by  lying  pompous  pride. 
And  grief  and  sorrow  and  temptation  sore, 
And  sin  and  pain  and  death  forevermore. 
Whether  this  life  or  thine  own  peaceful  rest, 
I  know  not,  oh,  I  know  not,  which  is  best. 


YELLOWSTONE  CANYON 

Not  in  the  blue  Ionian  isles 
Nor  Arthur's  island  home, 
Nor  on  that  bay  where  Capri  smiles 
Beneath  Vesuvius'  dome, 

Doth  such  a  dream  of  beauty  burst 
On  the  astonished  eye 
As  in  this  wondrous  chasm,  lost 
From  paradise  on  high. 

Well  may  the  troubled  soul  adore 
And  worship  at  its  shrine, 
Where  beauty  and  majestic  power 
Of  grandeur  intertwine. 

Abysses  smitten  deep  below 
Glow  with  such  hues  as  vie 
With  Iris'  myriad  colored  bow 
Arching  across  the  sky. 

Gulf  beneath  gulf,  the  golden  walls 
Yawn  pitiless  and  clear, 
Till  on  the  dizzy  brain  there  falls 
A  solemn  awe  and  fear. 

Far  down  within  the  lowest  deep 

A  tiny  thread  of  green 

Marks  where  the  battling  torrents  sweep 

These  glowing  walls  between. 

Yonder  across  the  chasm  bright, 
A  filmy,  lacy  veil 

Drifting  in  dazzling  gleaming  white, 
Seems  swayed  by  every  gale. 

And  high  above,  a  silver  mist 
79 


Where  glistening  droplets  shine, 
By  magic  rays  of  sunlight  kissed 
To  coloring  divine. 

O  fairy  fall,  behind  thy  veil 
Of  silver,  there  lies  furled 
A  power  to  make  the  spirit  quail, 
Strength  to  disrupt  a  world. 

Adown  thy  shelving  roof  on  high 
Arrowy  currents  gleam ; 
Swift  as  the  meteor  through  the  sky 
They  seek  the  rocky  brim, 

And  with  a  royal  plunge  they  soar 
Down  to  the  shuddering  deeps 
Where  blinding  chaos  evermore 
His  boisterous  revel  keeps. 

Relentless  as  the  gates  of  death, 
And  pitiless  as  hell, 
Woe  to  the  man  who  feels  thy  breath 
Or  rides  upon  thy  swell! 

For  him  this  life  is  but  a  span 
Briefer  than  beat  of  wing 
With  which  thy  screaming  eagles  fan 
The  spray  thou  dost  upfling. 

O  canyon  beautiful,  there  rests 
Within  my  memory  still 
The  vision  of  thy  sunlit  crests, 
Thine  emerald  waters  chill. 

And  over  all,  the  tenderness 
Of  summer's  golden  haze, 
While  every  slope  the  eye  doth  bless 
With  color's  lovely  maze. 
80 


Ruby  and  pearl  and  amethyst, 
And  sapphire,  and  the  sheen 
Of  ruddy  gold,  no  tint  is  missed 
In  all  the  world,  I  ween. 

Never  on  any  sea  or  shore, 
Whatever  light  may  shine, 
Or  sunlight  or  when,  arching  o'er, 
The  moon  and  stars  combine, 

Shall  any  scene  the  earth  doth  hold 
Smite  so  enchantingly 
As  that  when  first  I  saw  thy  bold 
Bewildering  harmony. 

Softer  than  glance  of  maiden's  eyes 
Thy  loveliness  doth  seem. 
Enshrined  in  memory  it  lies, 
Fair  as  youth's  wistful  dream. 


81 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

O'er  all  the  earth  a  golden  mist 
By  Autumn's  hand  is  hung. 
From  every  tree  her  lips  have  kissed 
Abroad  her  banner's  flung. 

And  yonder,  in  among  the  gold, 
A  scarlet  flame  I  see, 
Where  that  young  maple  doth  unfold 
His  dying  heart  to  me. 

Along  the   forest's  edge  embanked, 
In  keenest  rivalry, 

The  sumac's  serried  hosts  are  prankt 
In  gorgeous  livery. 

And  over  all  the  riot  bold 
Of  fitful  color's  blaze, 
The  sun,  with  level  rays  of  gold 
Pours  amethystine  haze. 

As  the  wild  swan's  lone  melody 
Floats  up  when  death  is  nigh, 
Nature  her  color  symphony 
Unfolds  ere  summer  die. 

Like    fleeting    pleasure's    lovely    face 
Summer  must  surely  be, 
Showing  her  most  alluring  grace 
Just  as  she  turns  to  flee. 


82 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  INDIAN   MOUND 
PARK 

Far  in  the  dim  unstoried  past, 
Of  which  no  legend  tells, 
These  tumuli,  with   labors  vast, 
Were  reared  o'er  cryptic  cells. 

Upon  this  bold  projecting  crest, 
Where  all  the  breezes  fanned 
The  grasses  growing  o'er  their  rest, 
Repose  that  mystic  band. 

Here  the  long  quiet  dreamless  sleep, 
Whose  waking  troubles  still 
The  human  heart,  with  questions  deep, 
Brought  balm  for  every  ill. 

The  old  and  wise,  the  young  and  fair, 
Were  gathered  here  at  last, 
And  found  relief  from  earthly  care, 
In  that  long  distant  past. 

And  who  of  us  shall  say  tonight 
What  longings  strange  and  dim, 
What  wistful  yearnings  toward  the  light, 
Midst  terrors  vague  and  grim, 

Led  them  to  this  enchanted  spot 
Where,  haply,  their  sad  eyes 
Amid  the  sunset's  glories  caught 
A  hint  of  paradise? 

Wide  spreading  underneath  them  sweep, 
Fair  as  sweet  Fancy's  dream, 
Forests  and  vales  and  valleys,  deep 
Embowered  along  the  stream — 
83 


The  mystic  stream  that  takes  its  rise 
Far  within  northern  lands, 
And  ends  where  summer  never  dies, 
Along   palm-shaded   strands. 

Sweet  be  their  sleep!     Unknown  to  them 
Grim  failure's  withering  blight; 
The  dull  and  sordid  cares  that  hem 
The  spirit's  upward  flight. 

Sweet  be  their  sleep!    As  wild  and  free 
As  soaring  skylark's  song, 
Dismayed  their  simple  souls  would  be 
Among  our  modern  throng. 

Sweet  be  their  sleep !     'Neath  sun  and  dew, 
In  wind  and  starlight  chill, 
They  dream  the  long  bright  summers  through 
Upon  their  sacred  hill. 


YULE-TIDE 

The  King  of  Yule  he  strides  abroad 
With  voice  as  blithe  and  gay 
As  when  he  ruled  the  festal  board 
In  bluff  King  Harry's  day. 

A  hale  old  soul  is  our  King  Yule, 
For  countless  ages  he 
Has  spread  his  kindly  hearty  rule 
Over  all  lands  that  be. 

His  mighty  feasts  in  days  of  old 
Were  shared  by  mighty  men, 
But  round  his  board  true  hearts  of  gold 
Still  gather  now  as  then. 

What  though  the  days  of  stricken  field 
And  deeds  at  arms  are  gone? 
What  though  with  sword  and  spear  and  shield 
No  battle  now  is  won? 

Stout  hearts  must  bear  the  brunt  of  blows 
Keener  than  sword  or  spear; 
Undaunted  souls  face  sterner  foes 
Than  mail-clad  cavalier. 

The  times  are  changed,  but  still  the  flower 
Of  knighthood  burgeons  free, 
And  he  is  blessed  who  has  the  dower 
Of  truth  and  bravery. 

So,  like  our  sires  of  old,  may  we 
With  joyous  hearts  and  kind, 
Engage  in  love  and  amity 
Where  yule-tide  wreaths  are  twined. 

May  every  soul  in  Christendom 
Be  gladdened  by  the  ray 
Of  Bethlehem's  bright  star  that  shone 
On  Christ  his  own  birth-day. 
85 


TO  MARGUERITE 
(On  the  occasion  of  her  debut) 

Oft  in  the  sunset's  golden  light 

My  wandering  spirit  strays 

Through  smiling  gardens'  pathways,  bright 

With  all  their  flowery  blaze. 

And  straying  mid  the  blossomings 
With  dream-enchanted  eyes, 
I  muse  on  all  heart-easing  things 
The  flowers  symbolize. 

The  rose's  fragrant  bosom  glows 

With  love's  unquenched  desire, 

While    through    the    lily's    veins    there    flows 

A  spiritual  fire. 

To  the  forget-me-not  is  given 
Remembrance  of  the  past. 
The  violet's  eyes  are  blue  as  heaven, 
Sweet  to  the  very  last. 


The  hyacinth's  the  child  of  woes; 
Narcissus  is  self-love. 
The  cloying  sweets  of  tuberose 
To  drowsy  languor  move. 

The  orchid  is  a  stately  dame 
Of  arrogance  supreme. 
The  poppy,  with  her  scarlet  flame, 
Brings  many  a  lovely  dream. 

Carnation's  beauty  is  complete; 
The  pansy's  thoughtful  still. 
86 


Who  loves  not  in  his  heart  the  sweet, 
Downglancing  daffodil? 

But  still  I  know  not  what  fair  flower 
Shall  typify  to  me 

Bright  friendship's  fascinating  power 
Through  all  the  time  to  be. 

In  vain  I  search  my  garden  gay, 
When,  lo!  here  at  my  feet, 
Just  budding  out  this  very  day, 
Behold,  the  ''Marguerite"! 


ALONGSHORE 

Ho  for  the  rough  waves  dashing! 
Ho  for  my  island  home, 
Where  racing  breakers  threshing, 
Leave  wakes  of  beaded  foam! 

Where  in  the  wild  March  weather 
Spindrift  and  foam  together 
Tap  at  the  window  pane. 
Unheeding  rein  or  tether 
These  birds  of  wildest  feather 
Seek  entrance  here  in  vain. 

Brightly  the  high  sun  shineth 
Over  a  flowing  sea. 
No  mortal  e'er  divineth 
How  great  its  glories  be! 
Silver  and  gold  and  azure 
Mixed  in  no  earthly  measure 
Give  hint  of  mystic  treasure 
Where  Nereids  dance  in  glee. 

But  when  the  sun  is  sunken 
Below  the  watery  rim. 
And  all  its  light  is  shrunken 
To  silver  gleamings  dim, 
Cruel  and  ruthless  is  the  sea 
As  veiled  destiny. 

Now  creeping  o'er  the  ocean 
In  slow  unhurried  motion, 
Comes  the  mist  demon's  frown. 
With  wrack  of  clouds  low-lying, 
Wind-twisted   vapors   flying, 
And  far-heard  sea  birds  crying, 
The  lonely  night  comes  down. 


Still,   though  unseen,   the  surges 
Beat  at  the  rock  that  scourges 
And  drives  them  to  the  main; 
While  winds  wail  round  the  gables 
As  did,  in  ancient  fables, 
Unshriven  souls  in  pain. 

But  wind  and  wave  and  weather 
All  merge  their  sounds  together 
Into  a  song  of  rest, 
And  sleep,  the  blissful  maiden, 
Gathers  the  sorrow-laden 
Soul  to  her  quiet  breast. 


SPRING  SONG 

My  soul  is  swung 
Like  sweet  bells  rung 
In  mellow  limpid  peals, 
This  springtime  day 
When  blithe  and  gay 
The  earth  in  transport  reels. 

The  grasses  peep 

From  slumber  deep, 

And  smile  to  meet  the  sun: 

The  new  buds  swell 

In  wood  and  dell, 

And  blossoms  every  one. 

The  young  woods  show 

A  tender  glow 

Of  delicatest  green; 

While  through  and  through, 

On  branch  and  bough 

The  sunlight  pours  between. 

And  from  the  earth, — 

A  kindling  birth, — 

The  dainty  dwellers  spring 

Who  fill  our  cup 

With  pleasure  up 

In  life's  new  blossoming. 

Now  over  all 
The  seneschal 

Of  spring's  awakening  days, 
The  gentle  rain, 
Brings  in  its  train 
Sweet  Flora's  lovely  maze, 
90 


The  harebell  blue, 

The  tender  hue 

On  fern  and  mandrake  set, 

Anemone, — 

But  chiefly  thee, 

0  springtime  violet! 

From  tree  to  tree 

Their  ecstacy 

The  trilling  chorus  pour, 

And  swell  their  throats 

With  dulcet  notes 

Of  rapture  o'er  and  o'er. 

Along  the  shore 

Where  evermore 

The  willows  bend  and  sway, 

Each  velvet  bud 

Stirs  in  the  blood 

A  springtime  roundelay. 

The  shoreward   crew 

Whose  shrill  ado 

Is  heard  both  near  and  far, 

Redouble  all 

Their  piping  call 

Beneath  the  evening  star. 

And  when  the  gleam 
Of  Dian's  beam 
Comes  like  a  spirit's  kiss, 
My  senses  reel, 

1  seem  to  feel 

The    Latmian    shepherd's    bliss. 


A  POET'S  HEART 

Within  a  vale  of  storied  Argolis, 

Where  lost  Mycenae  stood 

In  other  age,  but  now  in  this 

Grown  to  a  tangled  wood, 

A  poet  strayed  through  leafy  nave  and  aisle, 

And  thought  on  life's  vicissitudes  the  while. 

Over  the  solemn  hush  and  solitude 

The  year's  fresh-opening  hand 

Had  led   the  shining  multitude 

Of  flowers,  while  many  a  band 

Of  joyous  birds  were  carolling  away 

In  blithesome  jargoning  the  happy  day. 

In  one  fair  glade  young  spring  in  glee  had  set 

Her  daintiest  darlings  down — 

Anenome  and  violet 

And  daffodils,  to  crown 

A   slope   where   slender   harebells'    trembling    fears 

Made  mournful  music  for  the  fairies'  ears. 

Hither  the  poet  came.    In  his  wide  eyes 

Surprised  delight  doth  shine. 

More  lovely  than  his  far  surmise 

Is  Flora's  secret  shrine. 

So  lies  him  down  among  the  blossoms  gay 

To  watch  the  feathered  choir  make  holiday. 

The  interchanging  play  of  light  and  shade, 
The  gently  whispering  breeze, 
The  slumbrous,  booming  anthem,  made 
By  legioned  restless  bees, 

All  lured  him  down  the  pathway  smooth  and  steep 
Into  the  quiet  realms  of  grateful  sleep. 
92 


In  frolic  mood  a  band  of  wandering  fays, 

Chance-led  along  the  dale, 

Came  gliding  down  the  golden  rays 

That  pierced  the  leafy  veil. 

They  spied  the  poet  in  his  grassy  nest, 

Where  tranced  he  lay,  enwrapped  in  visions  blest. 

With  shrieks  of  sprightly  joy  and  merriment 
Unheard  of  human  ears, 
The  swarming  brood,  on  mischief  bent, 
With  laughing  gibes  and  jeers, 
Invade  his  person  lying  hid  from  view, 
And    search    and    probe    his    being    through    and 
through. 

With  immaterial  fingers  swift  and  bold 

They  grope  within  his  breast, 

And  drag  to  light  with  glee  untold 

His  bosom's  gentle  guest, 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  grief  for  human  smart, 

That  tender,  mystic  thing,  the  poet's  heart. 

Forthwith  the  boisterous  rout  by  ruddy  shame 

Were  hushed  to  musings  mild, 

For  hovering  round  about  them  came 

Full  many  a  lovely  child 

Of  Fancy,  from  the  violated  shrine 

Thus   rudely   entered   without  warning  sign. 

Dream   faces,   startled   fancies  deep, 

Their  shrinking  forms  display, 

And  shy  and  gentle  thoughts  that  creep 

Back  from  the  garish  day, 

Scared  by  the  hate  and  scorn  to  all  things  shown 

That  dare  to  live  for  beauty's  sake  alone. 


93 


The  thirst  that  drives  the  poet  his  life  long 

To  drink  at  beauty's  well; 

The  ear  that  hears  the  spirit  song 

That  never  tongue  may  tell; 

The  prophet  eye,  that  sees  the  dawning  light 

Expunge  the  errors  of  the  spirit's  night. 

The  spirit  pitiful  that  sees  the  blind 

Mad   welter  in   the   gloom, 

That  cries  a  warning  to  mankind, 

And  shares  Cassandra's  doom. 

Whose  eyes  compassionate,  since  time  began, 

Mourn  the  sad  edict  set  on  mortal  man. 

The  spirit  militant,  that  holds  the  truth 

Dearer  than  life  or  love; 

Whom  neither  hate  nor  serpent-tooth 

Of  calumny  may  move; 

But  steadfast  still,  whatever  fate  may  send 

Unterrified  dies  fighting  to  the  end. 

And  many  more  of  gentle  words  and  deeds, 

Unnumbered  as  the  sands, 

The  fays  might  see,  and  each  one  pleads 

With  mutely  folded  hands 

That  they  might  be  restored  to  that  dear  breast 

Where  neither  hate  nor  fear  nor  scorn  infest. 

Ashamed,   discomfited,   the   fairy   band, 

Each  seeking  to  atone 

For  what  his  desecrating  hand 

Had  wrought  against  the  lone 

And  unprotected  mortal  lying  there, 

Strove  eagerly  their  mischief  to  repair. 

And  one  brought  heartsease  for  his  spirit's  balm. 
Another  bringeth  rue 
And  poppies  red,  whose  essence  calm 
Doth  peaceful  sleep  renew. 
94 


One  doth  anoint  his  head  most  daintily 
With  oil  distilled  from  gums  of  Araby; 

Whose  virtue  was,  thereafter  he  might  hear 

The  swaying  bluebell  ring; 

The  plaintive  words  that  through  the  year 

The  nightingale  doth  sing; 

And  know  the  meaning  deep  of  every  sound 

Of  bird  or  beast,  above  or  underground. 

Another  whispers  in  his  sleeping  ears 

Old  tales  from  fairy  lore, 

The  hopes  and  fears,  the  smiles  and  tears 

Of  lovers  long  of  yore: 

And  bids  the  poet  as  he  farther  strays 

To  sing  these  songs  of  long  forgotten  days. 

When  every  fairy  wight  had  done  his  share, 

These  spirits  wild  and  free, 

Impalpable  as  crystal  air, 

Fled  where  no  man  may  see, 

And  left  the  poet  there — the  legend  tells — 

To  be  awakened  by  the  floral  bells. 


95 


AFTER  A  LATE  SNOW  STORM 

My  heart  is  saddened  by  the  voiceless  crying 
Where  prone  along  the  ground 
The  stricken  forms  of  early  flowers  are  lying 
In  icy  fetters  bound. 

O  Springtime,  else  so  tender  and  so  loving, 
Why  should  thy  changeful  breath, 
A  blight  across  the  vernal  landscape  moving, 
Do  these,  thy  babes,  to  death? 

Demeter,  whither  were  thy  footsteps  wending? 
Heard'st  not  thy  children's  cry 
Wlien  winter's  squadrons,  in  a  host  unending. 
Swept  from  the  northern  sky? 

Alone  and  helpless  now  the  flowers  are  falling, 
Smit  by  the  fatal  blast; 

The  spirit  of  the  snow  about  them  her  appalling 
And  chill  embrace  has  cast. 

Alas!  within  the  alabaster  masses 

We  see  each  pallid  face. 

The  while  its  dying  fragrance  sweetly  passes, 

Like  prayer  for  final  grace. 

The   earth,    so   prodigal,    will   bring   fresh    flowers 

To  ease  us  of  our  pain ; 

In  sunny  meadows  and  in  lonely  bowers 

The  buds  will  swell  again. 

But  to  our  saddened  memory  is  clinging 
Thought   of   those   faces   wan, 
And  sore  regret  our  inmost  heart  is  wringing 
For  bloom  untimely  gone. 
96 


IN  THE  TRACK  OF  A  FOREST  FIRE 

Upon  the  bleak  and  drifting  shore 

The  low  wind-tortured  trees, 

Mishandled  by  the  storms  of  yore, 

With  gnarled  and  bulbous  knees, 

Grotesque,  fantastic,  sprawl  along  the  sand, 

(Withered  and  sere 

In  the  sunlight  here,) 

Distorted,  goblin  keepers  of  a  lonely  barren  strand. 

Against  a  background  desolate 
The  dreary  picture  lies, 
Where  sylvan  hosts  bewail  their  fate, 
Upraising  to  the  skies 

Gaunt  blackened  arms  that  tell  their  sudden  doom. 
(A  holocaust 
By  the  demons  tossed 

To  sweep  them  all  together  to  their  crackling  fiery 
tomb.) 

Yet  here,  among  these  naked  spires, 
Where  death  his  wrath  doth  wield, 
Sweet  Nature's  force  that  never  tires 
Has  decked  the  stricken  field 
With  tangled  labyrinth  of  bush  and  vine, 
(Bramble  and  brier 
Those  sons  of  the  fire), 

With   eglantine   and   maiden   hair   and   brake   and 
columbine. 

The  high  sun  strikes  out  tender  greens 

Along  a  gentle  hill 

Sloping  where  purple  iris  leans 

Above  a  hidden  rill 

That  chuckles  ceaselessly  as  on  we  pass, 

(With  joyous  note 

97 


In  its  reedy  throat), 

And  laughs  in  bubbling  music  as  it  ripples  through 
the  grass. 

Blithe  spring  has  sown  both  far  and  wide 
Her  gems  with  lavish  hand, 
Beneath  the  rustling  herbage  hide 
A  shy  and  fragrant  band 
Of  pink  arbutus  denizens,  replete 
(Through  all  the  years 
Our  dearest  dears), 

With  memories  of  joys  that  fled  on  pinions  wild  and 
fleet. 

Yon  swelling,  golden,  mossy  knoll 
Thick  dappled  o'er  with  red 
Had  been  my  dearest  childish  goal 
In  years  that  long  are  dead: 
For  there  the  prim  and  dapper  wintergreen, 
(Filling  the  air 
With  a  perfume  rare), 

Like  dainty  woodland  belle  arrayed  in  scarlet  beads 
is  seen. 

And  love  dwells  here.     Among  the  bloom 
Where  upstart  aspens  dance, 
Gay  fawns,  with  eyes  of  liquid  gloom, 
In  youthful  rapture  prance, 
While  in  some  shadowy  nook  the  yearning  doe, 
(O  fawns,  'tis  well 
She's  the  sentinel!), 

Alert  and  watchful,  standing  guard,  protects  from 
every  foe. 

A  little  soundless  fluttering 
Within  the  fallen  wood 
Reveals  the  pheasant  hovering 
Her  leaf-brown,  fluffy  brood. 
98 


They  peer  about,  these  mites  of  recent  birth, 
(But  at  a  sound 
Not  a  chick  is  found.) 

At  all  the  strange  unwonted  things   in  this  new- 
entered  earth. 

Thus  love  and  life  and  beauty  come 

Where  desolation  grim 

Uprears  her  banner.     They  who  roam 

With  eyes  not  blind  and  dim 

By  reason  of  the  selfish  tears  that  flow, 

(Alas  how  few 

Have  the  vision  true!) 

May  see  the  hidden  benison  behind  the  clouds  of 


99 


MY  STAR 

The  night  wind  whispers  its  story, — 
My  shallop  seems  to  go 
In  paths  of  astral  glory 
Reduplicate  below. 

The  sense  of   the  great  world   resting 

Comes  like  a  slumber-song 

To  my  weary  soul,  attesting 

How  sweet  is  the  night  and  strong. 

Sweet  to  assuage  our  losses, 
Strong  to  relieve  our  pain  ; 
Sweet  to  make  light  our  crosses, 
Strong  to  revive  again. 

In  the  shallop  idly  drifting 
Over  the  dim  lake's  breast, 
My  spirit's  voice  uplifting 
Gives  a  desolate  cry  for  rest. 

When,  lo!  from  the  stellar  spaces 
Cometh  a  star-crowned  wraith. 
She  hovers  about  me,  and  places 
Her  hands  on  my  brow,  and  saith, 

"O  mortal  compounded  of  spirit 
Imprisoned  in  vestments  of  clay, 
Remember  'tis  thine  to  inherit 
A  part  of  the  infinite  day. 

In  the  struggle  unending  that  rages 
Twixt  man  and  angel  in  thee, 
Forget  not  the  terrible  wages 
Of  weaklings  who  falter  and  flee. 


Thy  spirit  thou  shalt  strengthen 
By  conquest  of  sorrow  and  fear, 
As  the  days  of  labor  lengthen, 
And  the  time  of  reaping  draws  near. 

And  when  the  final  evangel 
Shall  visit  thy  mortal  frame, 
Releasing  thy  sin-vexed  angel, 
It  shall,  rise  like  a  living  flame, 

And  soar  to  the  empyrean 
A  part  of  the  light  divine. 
Loud,  loud  shall  be  then  thy  paean. 
O  mortal,  what  visions  are  thine!" 

Then  bending  above  me  lowly, 
Sweet  as  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Three  kisses  pure  and  holy 
Unto  my  lips  were  given. 

The  first  hath  brought  life's  sweetness — 
It  came  like  a  rushing  song: 
The  second  in  its  completeness 
Hath  heartened  and  made  me  strong. 

But  or  ever  the  tale  be  given 
By  my  lips  of  the  last  of  the  three, 
May  my  dastard  heart  be  riven 
And  my  soul  in  jeopardy: 

For  across  the  abysmal  distance 
On  some  shimmering  night  afar, 
My  spirit  in  wild  insistence 
Shall  pierce  to  that  maiden  star. 


101 


THE  PRIMAL  STRAIN 

I  hold  it  true  that  every  man 
Has  deep  within   that  breast  of  his 
A  strain  that  reaches  back  to  Pan, 
And  stirs  at  woodland  mysteries. 

What  though  the  mind  be  cultured-filled  ? 
The  tiny  drop  of  Satyr  blood 
To  riotous  unrest  is  thrilled 
At  call  of  that  old  pagan  god. 

The  chance-heard  whistle  of  the  thrush, 
Odor  of  meadows  after  rain, 
Striking  the  senses  mid  the  rush 
And  turmoil  of  the  strife  for  gain, 

Will  in  a  pulse-throb  sweep  away 
Stone  walls  that  seem  to  touch  the  sky, 
And  lead  us  where  the  breezes  play, 
And  deep  alluring  shadows  lie. 

Or  where  the  loud-complaining  brook 
Tumbles  in  riot  down  the  glen, 
While  shelving  bank  and  foamy  nook 
Conceal  the  speckled  denizen. 

As  merry  April  leads  along 
The  bright  procession  of  the  hours, 
A  homesick  longing,  fierce  and  strong, 
Tugs  mightily,  with  growing  powers, 

Upon  those  cords  that  lead  adown 
Into  the  red  heart's  central  core, 
And  waken  primal  instincts,  sown 
Within  the  bosom  long  of  yore. 

102 


Happy  is  he  whose  wistful  eye 
May  gaze  once  more  on  field  and  hill, 
And  all  the  thousand  charms  descry 
That  Nature's  tiniest  spaces  fill. 

For  him  red  blood  and  thews  of  steel, 
And  joy  of  life  throughout  the  year, 
Pleasures  that  they  alone  can  feel 
Who   live   to   Nature's  bosom   near. 

For  when  the  final  tale  is  told, 

It  comes  to  this — man's  strength,  at  best, 

And  spirit  free  and  uncontrolled, 

Find  common  source  within  her  breast. 

The  men  of  brain,  of  bone  and  brawn, 
High  thinkers  they  and  men  of  worth, — 
The  fruitage  of  the  world's  new  dawn, 
Shall  suckled  be  by  Mother  Earth. 


103 


SPRING  IDYL 

Out  in  the  sweet  May  morning, 
Yvette,  the  world  adorning, 
And   I,   dull   duty  scorning, 
Haste  where  the  red  gods  call. 
'Tis   spring,   when  nothing  single 
Can  be  where  love-notes  mingle 
But  feels  his  blood  a-tingle, 
And  finds  his  heart  in  thrall. 

Beneath  the  spreading  birches 
Whereon  the  linnet  perches 
And  sings  a  song  that  searches 
And  thrills  us  through  and  through. 
What  bliss  beyond  comparing 
When,  with  a  sudden  daring, 
Spite  of  the  linnet  staring. 
Each  to  the  other  drew. 

Our  hearts  a  carol  singing, 
Love  glances  flashing,  winging, 
Aside  all  caution  flinging, 
Our  lips  in  kisses  met. 
Ah,  spite  of  years  of  sadness 
And  toil,  the  piercing  gladness, 
The  ecstasy  and  madness 
That  thrilled  me,  thrills  me  yet. 

Then  through  enchanted  spaces 
Where  sylph-like  floral  faces 
Smile  up  in  dainty  graces, 
We  wander  hand  in  hand : 
Till  in  the  tender  gloaming, 
Our  footsteps  earthward  roaming, 
We  come,  like  ringdoves  homing, 
Back  from  love's  fairy  land. 
104 


ABSENCE 

I  sit  where  star-crowned  Shelley  smiles 
And  rapturous  Keats  displays 
His  sweetest,  most  alluring  wiles 
Before  my  listless  gaze. 

The  mighty  minds  of  ages  gone, 
Each  one  a  flaming  light 
Xo  lead  my  spirit  up  and  on, 
Unheeded  are  tonight. 

Reproachfully  they  all  look  down, 
Giants  of  song  and  tale, 
And  watch  me  sitting  here  alone, 
While  Fancy's  crew  assail. 

In  order   is  the  household   all. 
In  wonted  place  each  thing, 
Yet  down  the  stairway,  past  the  tall 
Old  clock,  a  whispering 

Like  filmy  shadow  of  a  sound 
Heard  by  the  spirit's  ear, 
Pervades  the  air  and  hovers  round 
My  lonely  vigil  here. 

And  footfalls  light  as  fairy  feet 
Along  a  rose-leaf  way, 
When  in  their  flowery  revels  meet 
Those  dainty  sprites  and  gay. 

And    scarce-heard    rustlings    seem    to    swing 
The  stirring  drapery, 
More  faint  than  whir  of  linnet's  wing 
Among  the  shrubbery. 

105 


A  subtle  presence  through  the  room, 
Less   palpable  and   dense 
Than  far-blown  sweets  from  unseen  bloom, 
A  sense  within  the  sense, 

Brings  to  my  soul  a  nameless  cheer, 
Until  I  seem  to  see 
Her  spirit  brooding  o'er  me  here 
Who  holds  my  heart  in  fee. 


1 06 


SUNSET  LIGHTS 

Along  the  deepening  vale  of  life, 
As  sunset's  shadows  longer  grow, 
Fair  memories  come  tumultuous,  rife 
With  dreams  and  hopes  of  long  ago. 

And  through  the  sombre  darkness  here 
Pierce  sunny  gleams  from  days  gone  by 
That  lighten  all  the  passage  drear 
With  youthful  joys  and  triumphs  high. 

And  so  the  downward  sloping  path 
Holds  neither  fear  nor  dread  for  me; 
Since  life's  most  fragrant  aftermath 
Grows  sweeter  as  the  seasons  flee. 

What  though   the  head   be   bowed   and   gray, 
While  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat 
Have  tamed  the  active  limbs,  yet  may 
The  heart  to  youthful  measures  beat. 

The  magi£  spell  of  field  and  wood, 
The  sunset  with  its  red  and  gold, 
The  brooklet  with  its  rushing  flood, 
May  charm  as  keenly  as  of  old. 

And  when  this  throbbing  heart  forgets 
In  swifter  flight  its  blood  to  send 
At  sight  of  April's  violets, 
'Twill  be  the  end,  'twill  be  the  end. 


107 


SONNETS 


KEATS 

More  sweet  than  Hyblan  honey  is  thy  song. 
Like  clean-cut  cameos  thy  pictures  stand. 
Be  sure  the  Muse  with  her  own  plastic  hand 
Attuned  thy  lyre,  and  by  her  spirit  strong 
Thine  own  was  led  beyond  the  common  throng, 
Along  Arcadian  vales,  to  that  fair  land 
Where  visions  dwell,  and  there  at  her  command 
The  speech  of  gods  was  given  to  thy  tongue. 
What  Nymphs  and  Dryads  overran  thy  dream! 
What  ecstasy  of  longing  hast  thou  known ! 
Along  what  rose-embowered   Latmian  stream 
Were  dulcet-bosomed  Naiads  to  thee  shown 
As,  straying  'neath  thy  Cynthia's  witching  beam, 
She   stooped    from   heaven   and   took   thee   for  her 


ill 


SHELLEY 

Thou  fiery  spirit  of  the  upper  air, 

Like  thine  own  skylark  pulsing  loud  in  song, 

Stern  fighter  for  the  weak  against  the  strong, 

Our  earthly  praise  were  least  of  all  thy  care. 

Intrepid  spirit  that  would  keenly  dare 

On  wings  of  morning  soar  the  worlds  among, 

With  that  sidereal  host  dost  thou  belong 

About  Orion  and  the  northern  Bear. 

Clear  beauty  and  the  spirit's  life  are  thine. 

Crowned  art  thou  evermore  with  diadem 

Of  lambent  flame,  whose  jeweled  lightnings  shine 

Across  the  years  oblivion  to  condemn. 

The  whole  world  in  thy  music  dost  entwine, 

Each  word  a  song  and  every  song  a  gem. 


112 


MILTON 

As  some  tremendous  Himalayan  peak 
At  sunset  throws  its  splendor  o'er  the  world, 
Thy  lone  and  austere  genius  towers  impearled 
By  light  of  time  which  gilds  the  summit  bleak. 
Our  trembling  mortal  spirits,   frail  and  weak, 
Shrink    back    from    pitchy    blackness    tossed    and 

swirled 

In  that  vast  cauldron  down  to  which  were  hurled 
Archangels  bright  who  dared  God's  power  to  seek. 
Yet  far  below  thy  mighty  genius'  crest, 
Amid  the  bright  beginnings  of  thy  song, 
Lie  sunny  vales  where  Nymphs  and  Naiads  blest 
On  twinkling  feet  dance  gaily  all  day  long. 
And  one  loved  spot,  where  Lycid  lies  at  rest, 
Is  still  a  shrine  to  which  the  poets  throng. 


R.  L.  S. 

Thou  gentle  gossiper  of  things  divine, 
Thou  white-souled  lover  of  the  sunny  world, 
Though  flayed  by  weakness,  thy  brave  spirit  hurled 
Thy  soul  into  life's  active  battle  line. 
Unsullied  honor  and  clear  manhood  shine 
From  all  thy  pages,  every  page  impearled 
With  jewelled   thought.     Close  in  our  hearts  up- 
furled, 

Thy  memory  hath  there  its  perfect  shrine. 
By  what  sweet  alchemy  hast  thou  so  wrought 
That  each  unlovely  thing  thy  presence  flees? 
What  sage  or  god  thy  kindly  spirit  taught 
To  lead  us  into  those  far  southern  seas 
Where  thine  impressionable  soul  had  caught 
The  haunting  songs  of  the  Hesperides? 


114 


LINCOLN 

Thou  monument  of  every  good  that  lies 

Among  the  common  people  of  the  land, 

Secure  is  thy  great   fame.     Thou   still  dost  stand 

Colossal  among  giants.     To  our  eyes 

Thy  rugged  features,  like  the  bright  sunrise, 

Are  all  aglow  with  light  serene  and  grand 

Which  has  its  source  in  thy  true  heart's  demand 

For  mercy  blent  with  firmness  just  and  wise. 

Nor  do  the  mists  of  passing  decades  hide 

Thy  glory,  which  yet  shineth  clear  and  bright 

From  chaos  of  thy  times,  and  doth  abide 

Like  some  high  mountain  hidden  from  our  sight 

When  near  at  hand,  but  towering  magnified 

By  distance  to  its  lonely  mystic  height. 


A  SEQUENCE  OF  FOUR  SONNETS 

Demeter,  great  earth-mother,  take  thou  me, 
Thy  foster  child  outworn  with  toil  and  pain. 
Within  thy  soothing  arms  the  fretful  chain 
Of  custom  falls,  and  leaves  my  spirit  free 
To  worship  and  to  take  its  joy  in  thee, 
Far,  far  removed  from  life's  mad  hurricane 
And  vortex  of  contention,  where  in  vain 
I  strive  thy  faithful  servitor  to  be. 
Thus  pillowed  on  thy  bosom  let  me  hear 
The  grasses  rustling  round  me  as  I  lie, 
And  all  the  woodland  blossoms  that  uprear 
Their  dainty  heads,  and  gossip  knowingly 
Of  things  too  deep  for  my  dull  mortal  ear, 
Of  death  and  life  and  their  dim  mystery. 

II 

Great  mother,  take  me  to  thine  inmost  heart. 

Teach  me  the  secret  language  of  the  flowers, 

And  what  they  say  throughout  the  sunny  hours. 

Tell  the  sweet  means  by  which  thou  dost  impart 

Its  odor  to  the  rose,  and  bid  it  start 

In  pulsing  new,  what  time  the  winter  cowers 

And  flees  before  the  all-compelling  powers 

Of  great  Apollo  with  his  golden  dart. 

Tell  me  the  secret  of  the  violet's  blue, 

The  hawthorn's  white,  the  pink  carnation's  blush 

How  doth  the  budding  foliage  renew 

Its  tender  green  along  the  swaying  bush? 

What  signal  dost  thou  give  the  iris  crew 

To  decorate  the  shore  with  verdure  lush? 


116 


Ill 

O  mighty  mother,  stern  and  yet  so  mild, 

Show  how  the  sap  distils  along  the  trees 

Until  the  smallest  twigs  of  each  of  these 

Are  thrilled  with  spring-time  joy  and  gladness  wild, 

And,  like  thy  lowliest  hidden  grassy  child, 

Put  forth  brave  show  of  vernal  greeneries: 

And   fluttering   their  new   mantles   to   the   breeze, 

Murmur  in  innocence  all  undefiled. 

What  may  the  purport  of  their  whisperings  be? 

Do  they  the  mystery  of  life  disclose, 

And  what  comes  after  death,  when  suddenly 

The  vital  spark  that  through  our  being  glows 

Expires,  and  with  fast  glazing  eyes  we  see 

The  light  that  from  Elysium  overflows? 

IV 

Alas!  the  secret  still  is  hidden  deep. 

In  heedless  babble  talk  the  nodding  leaves: 

Yet  my  soothed  spirit  now  but  faintly  grieves, 

Drawn  Letheward  by  dreamy  restful  sleep. 

The  frolic  winds  along  the  hillside  sweep 

And  make  irate  the  buzzing  honey  thieves 

Whose  gauzy  wings,  when  boisterous  Zephyr  heaves, 

Are  all  too  frail  their  wonted  poise  to  keep. 

My  soul  is  led  the  slumbrous  vales  along 

By  leafy  lullabies,  and  murmurous  tune 

Of  buried  runnels,  and  the  cradle-song 

Of  vagrant  bees  who  hum  a  sleepy  rune. 

Demeter,  mother,   fruitful  young  and  strong, 

Thou  bringest  rest,  thy  tired  children's  boon. 


117 


PROSERPINE 

Six  times  the  moon  hath  changed,   O   Proserpine, 
Since  last  thy  presence  cheered  this  world  of  ours. 
But  with  awakened  life  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  flow  of  sap  along  the  tree  and  vine, 
Xhou  comest  with  thy  quickening  smile  divine, 
Abandoning  the  gloomy  Stygian  bowers 
Where  thou  must  spend  the  dreary  winter  hours, 
And  now  thy  breath  intoxicates  like  wine! 
Thy  velvet  footfalls  fill  the  earth  with  bloom: 
Joy  bringest  thou  to  hearts  that  need  it  sore: 
Thou  banishest  the  weariness  and  gloom 
That  dull  gray  skies  into  our  spirits  bore, 
And  standest  beckoning  beyond  the  tomb, — 
The  symbol  clear  of  life  forevermore. 


118 


TO  FANNY 

Dear  gracious  lady  with  the  diadem 
Of  silver  tresses  round  thy  queenly  head, 
Through  all  the  pleasant  seasons  that  have  fled 
Since  to  my  keeping  came  the  priceless  gem 
Of  thy  pure  friendship,  which  doth  ever  hem 
My  life  with  sweet  observance,  and  hath  led 
To  knowledge  of  thy  virtues, — garlanded 
Forget-me-nots  enshrine  both  thee  and  them. 
Whatever  envious  time  may  bring  to  me, 
Within  my  heart  shall  be  no  trace  of  fear, 
So  that  thou  keep  me  in  thy  memory 
And  thy  blithe  spirit  float  forever  near; 
Even  though  thine  earthly  presence  may  not  be 
Perceived  by  these  mine  eyes  that  hold  thee  dear. 


119 


TO  A  CROCUS 

Thou  pert  and  daring  flower  that  pushest  through 
The  lingering  snow  to  show  thy  winsome  face, 
Thou  sweet  forerunner  of  the  dainty  grace 
Of  spring,  when  blossoms  full  of  sun  and  dew 
And  perfume  come,  thy  cheerful  smiles  renew 
The  summer  in  my  heart,  and  drive  all  trace 
Of  stormy  winter  back  to  that  dim  place 
Where  half -forgotten  memories  lie  perdu. 
The  mystic  charm  that  the  reviving  year 
Brings  to  our  hearts,  within  thy  chalice  lies. 
Thy  velvet  lips  unto  the  spirit's  ear 
Whisper  of  stirring  life  that  soon  shall  rise 
From  the  new-kindled  earth,  and  lead  anear 
Long  vanished  joys  to   reminiscent  eyes. 


120 


IN  NOVEMBER 

O'er  all  the  face  of  torpid  nature  lies 
An  elemental  desolation  vast, 
That  speaks  of  life  which  from  the  earth  has  passed, 
And  left  its  dull  dead  husk  to  film  our  eyes. 
But  hope,  to  still  the  spirit's  mournful  cries, 
Bids  each  his  vision  on  the  future  cast, 
(Beyond  the  time  of  wintry  storm  and  blast,) 
When  life  triumphant  over  death  shall  rise. 
Since  thus  the  fecund  womb  of  mother  earth 
May  keep  immortal  even  grass  and  flowers, 
How  must  the  demons,  in  discordant  mirth, 
Mock  at  our  tremblings  when  death's  shadow  low- 
ers; 

And  howl  and  dance  in  glee  to  see  the  dearth 
Of  faith  and  knowledge  in  these  hearts  of  ours. 


121 


UNREST 

I  know  not  by  what  sweetest  alchemy 

This  grizzled,  time-worn,  weary  heart  of  mine 

Beats  with  a  youthful  zest  and  joy  divine, 

What  time  the  powers  of  darkness  have  set  free 

The  goddess  of  the  spring,  Persephone. 

Her  breath,   like  incense  from  some  hidden  shrine 

Doth  permeate  my  being,  and  incline 

To  dreams  of  happiness  that  may  not  be. 

What  strange  unrest  doth  agitate  my  soul 

With  longings  that  I  do  not  understand  ? 

Doth  my  immortal  spirit  seek  control 

Of  its  own  destiny,  and  make  demand 

For  freedom  from  that  sadness,  ages  old, 

Which  rings  humanity  on  every  hand  ? 


122 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

APR     7  1C 

80  ^                ,  ;   o  k 

1991 
mo 

flB      Ml  3  0 

1980 

Hi      JAN  1  9 

1981 

•"  "%„ 
wSSl   J^i*  "  *• 

1981  , 

•Form  L9-Series  4939 


